the unendurable tension before the thing cracks

I feel like a river with 12 tributaries, of which only 2 are being used. Bandwidth, force, and power to spare.

I need to use my whole brain, not just the linear/task part. I need a resonator for gibbering layered pheremonic truths. I could play a grand piano for five straight hours. Thank god I see Radmila tonight, who can go big and explode into exponentialness.

All my usual avenues are pallid, lacking.

I am tired of waiting.

My unconscious has done nothing all day but work on how to stage horses.

I did a piece, WarHorses II, from a painting. It had 5 actors, whips, guitars, wild singing, ritual challenges in Japanese and Castillian Spanish, and intimate sensual deaths.

I'm ready to do WarHorses III. The one with the death's head and the capering shriekers, the kookaburras and the meadow of fire. I see Genghis's horsemen as an extension of their mounts, not the other way round.

The true story of Seabiscuit's jockey was much darker.

They asked me when I was three what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A horse," I said.

In Krakow, on Independence Day, the Polish armies marshalled in the town square. Men with fancy uniforms and good guns. Men with plain uniforms and plain guns. Men with no guns at all. That's who was sent to attack Iraq -- men with no guns at all. That's who defended Baghdad, city of story and legend -- men with no guns at all.

I need to destroy something. Starting with my government. I'm like a wildfire with no oxygen, all heat and mounting pressure.

I am without Play or Purpose, twisting like Billie Holiday's bruised strange fruit.

The Tarot said yes to everything today. Should I let L lead. Should I do Henry V. Should I make the play about Genghis Khan. Knight of Pentacles. King of Cups. Six of Pentacles (Success).

I'm holding space for something I want to do. I'd rather just be doing it.

Underneath that -- this is all just a way to distract myself from my Alignment. Not doing my alignment is what's making me crazy.

don't write another
fucking poem -- god only hears
sweat, feet, gasping breath

all your why's don't change
the tide. this road does not exist.
walk another.

this is the
unendurable tension before
the thing cracks open

twist, twist, twist, until
the fissuring explosion --
use your body now

Like that song Jim sings...

Lay your head back on the ground
Let your hair fall
all around you
Offer up your best defense --
this is the end
this is the end
this is the end
of the innocence