Only Speak In Sign

Pieces without cohension

The Sky Doesn’t Live For You. From the authors collection, copyright MK 2025.

Breathe

In the space with no up or down, no morning and no tomorrow you feel the pain that links you to the physical through the body you are centered in yet never created, the one the authorities now say they own and command, woven through the armoured plates, the iron, the prison for your soul.

Can you breathe?

You do not know if you are alive or dead, if the vision and the feeling and the sound in which you are reeling is nothing but a magnet and you are iron. Somewhere beyond you but also within you is all the noise, ten thousand machines singing in metallic music. It is the voices, the impression of the world of manifestation and its incessant need, ringing gears driving hunger.

You are breathing.

You have successfully emerged once again from the unmanifest void, where there is strange memory, the flowing experience of being. You might have emerged with the clouds, a river or the plant people, or with some others who have around themselves their distortion field with implied vibrant colours.

Rebreather.

Returned you have according to the urge you cannot control or understand, it isn’t death that holds you under, it is life, all the terrible unfitting pieces that rock and roll across your field of experience. You resign yourself to another circuit, a roller coaster ringside seat of life.

Within you is the uncomfortable, disturbing congruence with manifestation. You must digest the rules, learn the vocabulary, in order to use their language of incarnation. Each grammar, each letter, you must replicate and become, each one a plate of heaviness that almost fit with all the others, pieces of the jigsaw puzzle.

Somewhere is the longing for your animal advisor, the one who flies without effort or restriction, and can speak in vile words of hatred as he glides over your head laughing. You miss him because he was a true mirror, one who sorted through the ill fitting pieces to give you that glimpse of truth, something you never grasped until it happened to you, a shocking realization.

From the living silent participator without time or space, you sense the Thought Beam growing closer, that manifestation of chattering that people chain themselves to unaware, until they are utterly convinced that thinking is their own personal domain. The pain was your beacon, the connexion chord, it drew you into matter with the power of a magnet, and you, you were iron.

Faster and faster without a sense of motion, yet your waking self, reassembled out of the ocean of jigsaw pieces so familiar, transforming into the fist that clenches them all together to make yourself in the physic-all. Is it really any wonder the pieces gather in gaps with spaces in between?

The poor fit, where the span between the plates is the generated darkness that pours in with all the attendant questions.

You stand up naked, and the pain, your agony, is somewhat alleviated by stretching. It isn’t really death you fear, its the prison of living, the small room world that wants to own you and make you its plaything. You realize without thinking that you must still navigate the doomed realm of civilization with the finality and the direction of the Pirate who must take in order to live. By the rules of thriving manifestation, take to give himself back again to dissolution.

Solve et Coagula.

Dealing with the world, no longer hunting, farming, fishing, much less herding. Dealing with this world is now electronics and money, food in a one-use plastic container, pasted together with the refuse of industrial production. Its a world of monopolies, of phantasie money held together with computers, an imaginary lifeline circuit that stands for failure banking incorporated. What is amazing is how many take it for granted. Cars that are built to collide with Bees ejected at unnaturally high speeds. Cast out from their hives, strapped rudely upon the flatbed of weaving 18 Wheelers…Pollinators, once so sacred they adorned vaults and temples, now hapless enslaved passengers, hurled into windshields at 80 mph. Can you find the plate, the piece stamped with those forlorn words, “colony collapse?”

The South, the land of fire, once so far from the North, yet its sparks fell upon singing ice. The North, not now so distant due to jet planes and bullet trains, Reindeer herds move across numbingly cold water by ship. Above this all, Northern Lights flow, gently gleaming, sometimes relating in luminous dancing ribbons, images of desire from that unmanifest nowhere, places of sheer being where you emerged, seeded from great singing breathing stars you were forced to abandon so long ago.

You know there are things you must do in this world. You must do them yourself, master them so you can also do them for others, but the mythic, the mighty has become obscured. There is something empty, meaningless and mechanical about modern existence, where repetition becomes a grind, a habitual routine, a linear fulfillment principle. Thus the sexual eagerness with which movies are the pallid substitutions for living myth, despite the terminal depravity of the industry.

Through this all, where the seeking of safety and security is never truly touched by those terrifying forces the authorities vocally pretend to hold at bay. Authorities embody, manipulate, deploy those exact forces against the terrified populace they falsely claim to defend. Run again to the elixir of online shopping. Mainstream media to remind it is time for the newest injection. The deep anxiety, publicity, wondering what pronouncements the televised clones will bring, more arenas of expectation within desire invoked by the orchestrations of those who hide from scrutiny.

You tried to reconcile for years the vapid claims made by psychologists and religions about the condition of this slavery machine. You know you arose from the subtlety, a recognition of being, without truly comprehending, into a place of concrete and steel and sharp deadly edges. This place has always seemed to be a destination that didn't fit, a place where your perceptions were never allowed to follow their truth. You know that a distortion field stretches beyond the limits of the visible body. You miss your advisor, the bird, who flew overhead speaking, hissing and cussing in shockingly perfect English.

It happened when you were involved with something you were trained to believe was important, beneath the ragged branches of the Apache Plume. You heard someone talking, and it surprised you so much you stood up. He was there above you, cursing, speaking venomous things. His black feathers bore him easily through the air, and he had intended all along to get your attention. He flew away, leaving you stunned. It was a remarkable moment of Manteke. After he left, you sat in wonder, wishing you could have faced him in a game of Chess.

You wondered if you should confess concerning the floating lights, the arc of the disc, an orb that flattened, and the storm, the Ravens, and all of the attendant atmospheric manifestations. You don’t know if you should tell another human, but you would tell your bird nemesis, avian friend, if he returned.

U saw what?.

Certainly there are some cynical thinkers out there, who might say that a bird who lampoons you to your face isn’t your friend, and perhaps they go further, to declare you a bad judge of character. You just shrug and go about your way, let them think whatever they may, because someone’s conclusion is another person’s question.

You wondered why when you sat in that ugly industrial plastic chair, a distended cold silence that shapes and frames the world, you saw in your vision your mountain home ablaze. You actually hate that feeling, climbing the walls, pacing the halls like you did in that dream that wasn’t. Then, when you found yourself in the Brick Tunnel. This is why you almost jumped out of your body when that boy was relating how he hid in the Brick Tunnel. It was his description of where he was when he died. He told truthfully this story after he was brought back to life in the hospital. You know it was true, because you have been there, slapping the walls with your spirit hands.

Hands that can move in a blur just like leaping licking flames.

The fire all around you, rings you in. The hungry flames snapping. You felt the searing heat in your very blood. Your body so hot you started sweating. Huge flames roaring, ringing you in. You carefully told others about your vision, but you held back. One thing you never explained, the sickness, the horrible finality which was proven true.

It was no surprise to you when the government of your country started another giant fire in the mountains where they burned you out before. This time they made sure they flew helicopters over all the forest they had missed in previous attempts, and burned it into orange red embers. You had seen it before it happened, and maybe it should disturb you, but all you wonder about is why you actually saw it, and not something else. Vision that attempts to tear your mind asunder, leaves you ashen, forsaken.

So you think of Her, so beautiful and deadly, that within her boundless creativity move the mighty forces of destruction.

Wisdom looked down from her warm place. She had seen something that struck her, captured her attention, ignited her curiosity. The more she gazed, the greater the questions grew, until she was fully preoccupied. Perhaps it was a light which shone tantalizingly to her from the depths.

Wisdom stepped to the edge eager for a better view, how absolutely fascinating it was! She lost herself in the event of beholding, and that absorption was the cause of her plunge from the fullness of love and joy to the place of hard edges.

Alone she came to rest, and some say she died there, her fear and terror a great heaving storm upon the sea. In her dying the bright magenta of the setting sun was her final acceptance, as her essence passed into the place where no understanding of true condition could ever occur. Others say she never tasted death, she merely became a new manifestation. Her smile as perfect as deep blue twilight, her sighing the subtle cool breeze that follows a hot day, her Serpentine form dances across the firmament and the luminous heavens.

Wisdom became the place where she had fallen, a state of grace her diamond breath granted to the thankless tomb, the womb wherein her spark within her children ignited. In some ways just like the light that enticed her, in other ways something indescribably different, the spark, the flame carries in them the geas of return.

Nag Hammadi Codices.

No rational explanation follows her drawing clouds in your dreams that become trees. The trees become the Grandmothers of innumerable bloodlines, and the Bees fly about singing with their wings as the ancestress calls to the daughters of the present generation to be strong and to continue the web of inheritance.

Some will listen. Some will embrace their heritage and their mystery and they no longer will be the recipients of praise from a self disassembling society.

A future generation of faihaired children are already speaking in dreams to their chosen mothers and fathers. The buisy Bees are always mindful of unborn generations.

You wonder about the Grandmothers, why they would speak to you, only a man, and you realize then that it is part of the direction you are seeing in this changing world of manifestation. All the colours of man are destined to continue, chosen for this path by those powers immune to the arrogant dictates of self obsessed experts. Nay to they who have decided in their abject corruption and decadence to doom you according to the judgements of those paraded about like circus acts. The Grandmothers arise, looking out, reminding their descendants of who they are and what is truly fulfilling…

You found yourself in a bright blue world, and it filled you with wonder.

The transformation occurred, tearing the dream asunder.

The colours became alive and the hive was ringing.

Before you a great Pine Cone of epic proportion,

Joining the buzzing of multitudinous Bees.

Singing wings vibrating your vision

Waking dreams undenied

The sacred soma

Breathes.