Were I the Reflection within the Mirror

Were I the Reflection Within the Mirror

Were I the reflection within the mirror,
So skillfully,
So tastefully drawn, by time
And circumstance,
To stand erect and aloof, contemplating the contour lines
Of a face drawn and haggard
By the ravages of age.
I could dance amidst the tick-tock
Magic of days,
Wander through the empty, labyrinthine halls
Scream at the lonely hours hissing by
In somnolent reverie; and wonder, oh wonder, Where truth ends,
Reality stops,
And reflective illusion takes the reigns…

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New Interview! Undressing Underground Podcast w/ Rob M.

Keeping it real, homies.

(Probably my most candid, honest interview to date.)

Special thanks to Laura and especially Rob M. from Undressing Underground Podcast.

Undressing Underground Episode 6: Tom Baker

A Sprig of Grapes

So here I am sitting in church.

“Wait, didn’t you say you had a dream about God last night?”

Someone to my left asks me this. In point of fact, I had a dream I died. Went through the whole tunnel of light thing. A space-alien voice, like a prerecorded robot female telephone operator says, “And I started moving faster and faster.” And right away, I make that God has everyone on a string, like the Krishnas believe, and when he pulls up…that’s death.

But I don’t tell the guy any of this.

In front of the church, on either side of the altar, the pastor and some other rube is sitting, and I make I should get up out of the pew, and so I go up to them and the pastor smiles at me, great, awesome gape of a grin…
“Hey, don’t you remember your instructions?”

He smiles. Secretly, I hate and fear the man, as his withering contempt is somehow frightening to me. But, it looks like his church has fallen on hard times. The decor is the same, but this business with two tables set up for communion…I don’t understand.

He hands me a sprig of grapes. I suppose this is the untrammeled body of Christ. Or maybe, like the ancient hymn, He is trampling out the vintage.

(“In the lilies of the valley, Christ was born across the sea, with a splendor in his bosom that transfigured you and me…”

I wake up with this in my head. Something about these lyrics…

“As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free…”

Our God is marching on. )

I look at them, rather nonplussed. He is sitting in what looks like a lawn chair. It’s all very casual. This is communion?

My grandfather is leaning over the table on the right. I walk up behind him, and he hands over a clear plastic Dixie cup spilling over with wafers. The Body of Christ? I think to myself, disgustedly.

“Don’t you remember your instructions?” His question kept reverberating inside my skull. I had dreamed, the night before, that God had everyone on an invisible cord, like the silver cord spiritualists claim connects the astral body and the physical body to keep them from separating on the earth plane. And when we die? He simply pulls the cord, like pulling the plug.

We go up, up, up…through the tunnel of light. “Faster and faster,” claimed the cyborg-like voice.

Faster and faster.

But, I couldn’t, at any rate, remember whatever it was my instructions were supposed to be.

And I was separated from God.

And maybe we explode like a burning flame, flicker out like a dying star. And maybe we are trampled like the vintage, like the grapes of wrath…

And maybe, and maybe, and maybe so…

From “The Murder Castle” (As Yet Unfinished)

“It’s from the German. It references the idea that each man has a metaphysical twin, somewhere in the cosmos. Perhaps this twin lives on somewhere in the the other side, perhaps trying, desperately, to make it to this side of reality, to push his brother out of the way. To get what he feels he is owed. Or maybe this is just a way to preserve his being.

“A man might go his entire life caught in an intractable and complete state of utter indifference to the presence of malign, or even supernatural entities. To the presence of evil as a real, quantifiable, commensurate and tangible otherness. However, he may, one day, round a corner of the street, perhaps in tipping his hat to some fair lady, and may, as a man falling from a mighty precipice, or one struck by lightning, find himself staring at his own dubious reflection. Now, is he just staring into some sort of dismal mirror–maybe he happened, unknowingly, upon a shiny plate glass window–unsuspectingly having been caught in some dour optical chicanery?

“He may take off his hat. He may be staring at a mirror image of himself. Or, it may be that that denizen of the carbon copy world, the world that is, quite literally, ‘through the looking glass,’ will have slipped the tenuous reigns of his dimensional imprisonment.

“He may, like some otherworldy revenant returned from the grave, come seeking sustenance and succor. But his repast will not be a haughty draft of blood, no sir. It will be nothing less than the absorption of our sorry, hypothetical protaganist, who may be digested, bit by bit, while he still grasps his hat in his hand, his slack jaw working in dumbfounded circles at the damned inscrutable nature of occult things.”