Occuduct

tribeless

Without a tribe. Solitary is mutually exclusive with solidarity. Longing for sense of belonging. I am afloat in a human sea, perplexed at my continued buoyancy. Massive chains of chattering driftwood reach for idols, not false but unarguably cheap. The philadelphia eagles are a hebrew nation. Fans driven together by unrelenting defeat. A narrative written of woe, a present filled with hope noncommittal. What came first the us or the them? My them is now, my us doesn’t even include me. Am I to believe that this basic sensation that tugs at my pantlegs like a neglected toddler can be analyzed, written off as a reaction to past failures, days when my father fell asleep during our court appointed meetings, months watching my mother raise an alien family with my dejected approval? Origin of exile dances between memories. Moments of deprivation retooled as character building exercise. Dangling fruit withered before the vine was green. Class war never happened never will. Money is currency. Currency is nothing without social value. Social value depends upon peers. Peers preclude tribe. I am middle class, the tribe of millions, the tribe of waking up from the pipe dream of upward mobility. our right of passage is learning the distinction between choice and selection. our betters fill in the blanks, write terse answers to questions of identity. The prodigious tribe gets a,b,c or d. Self limitation after the fact. In hindsight, mitigate the potential that you failed and tragedy becomes prophecy. Loop and fast forward and prophecy becomes stagnation. 

The tribe expects departure, exodus strengthens genetic difference. Genetic difference strengthens generations to come. Lack of hope for generations to come in/dependent of/on lack of prospect for meaningful proliferation, reproduction, retirement, repose. Murder and rape were once realities of genetic skirmishing. Feminists decry rape as the ultimate evil. Perhaps, but can genes be evil? Was rape as mentally damaging without the boogeyman implications of the throbbing phallus of anonymous torture? Conservatives demand blood for blood. They know best how to sate their lusts— within the boundaries of law with the gaudy sheen of morality. 

When i leave my family I do not leave my tribe. When I leave my house on 30 teaberry lane I do not leave my tribe. When I flee to rural Massachusetts to flee my tribe I do not leave my tribe. My tribe has always been one. My idol has been the face girlfriends often caught me ogling in mirrors and black cars. What greater mystery than the self to proclaim, to explore. Chris Blake is the harvest god, bringing pain and pleasure, life and death in equal measure. But only to Chris Blake. Some days I swear my skin is a silicone layer, beneath it writhes a true organic being, coiled and covered in salty swamp. I wish it were truly vanity that drove me to inspect my appearance, or perhaps even novelty. Disbelief, bemusement. No thats not it. Every look is a question. A prayer to my corporal deity for guidance. Deliverance from silicone, air mail delivery to a new tribe.

suspended just a thoughts breadth from the concrete,

the wheels undulating in uneven spurts,

stirred by coals and embers that fester in an antiquated kettle, 

i lurch and grasp to eliminate the distance

but every recoil in preparation for a concerted lunge

negates the distance closed.

the odometer belies countless miles traveled,

the engine bears the burden of boundless self seeking road-trips.

just an inch. one moment of tense traction

and then fire-trailing propulsion

to paths sundered open, pleasures and truths ripped from the indifferent horizon.

it could have been as easy to sit here calm

and conjure hypothetical journeys, and imaginary forays

to whatever destination suits me

but there is no faking the boiling blood

and the hormonal geysers spewing sweat and seratonin

dulling the existential edges

into a bludgeoning instrument

meant to pound pavement and bridges and partitions and medians

round corners in a ludicrous fashion

and flee bit-crushed reality closing from all sides but forward.

it feels good to delete tabs in your browser, just like it feels good to throw up. the expulsion of frivolous material speaks to some inner need for simplicity. I let giant piles of filth accumulate in my room just for the satisfaction of cleaning it in one concerted effort, the empty catharsis of menial tasks. sometimes it seems to me that every one of our daily rituals just relive the constant cycle of arousal, stimulation and orgasm, like our lives are simply some self referential metaphor, constantly mimicking the process that created us. 

we go to the strip mall, our salivary glands working on overtime to lubricate the abstract gears of an economy built upon the illusion of perpetual expansion. neon nymphs and technicolored frills lure the consumer into chrome baited traps, like a well established man luring a young girl into his bedroom. 

like the young girl we prolong the encounter with feigned innocence: as sartre pointed out passivity is the denial of choice, the fear of commitment. wishing to be led awestruck to the chamber of our deflowering, we the consumer stand on inclined conveyors that navigate the winding capitalist corridors, anticipation mounting our hearts like a thoroughbred mounting a naive furry, anxiety nibbling our ears, sweetly crooning the laments of offers let pass and deals left undone.

unfortunately it comes to pass that the consumer must choose their despoiler. faced with a room full of suitors peddling their erotic wares, we chaste virgins inwardly blush at the attention, ignoring the obvious objectification in favor of the saccharine promises painted on the suitor’s faces.

there’s a camel and a cowboy plotting my demise

and i pay them for their company

cause i want someone at my side when I die

and my labored breaths formed a union

the day my mind went on strike

but its all under control

i’ll smoke them outta their holes

and break their pickets with this line

cause if you live too long

you’ll live to see your pastures sold

and cigarettes are my last defense

against ever getting old

i saw the shriveled smoker’s long

at the body world exhibit

it did nothing to limit

my pack a day habit

and it’d be a lie

to say I’m not afraid to die

but i’ll be damned if I let

my body outlast my mind

and if you live too long

you’ll live to see your pastures sold

and cigarettes are my last defense

against ever getting old

age may give you wisdom

and a few fond memories

but that’ll only last 

till alzheimers takes it back