Olly Olly Oxen Manifesto

we green
beasts
stagger

through
the gospel
of mud

and there’s no escape from mud bones sun sidewalk. Why gravity means makeup faces at a funeral anchors casting into frigid waters heavy serious solemn. No escape. Suicide only spits you out into a grander chaos of torn wrapping paper empty boxes ticking clocks voice mail. It’s a whirlwind holiday that forces you to repeat it all over again and again and again. Besides, it's for laymen. But you may do as you choose.

Amidst, among. No paths no kicked sawdust no roadshows no informants no ethical impositions and above all – no escape. No tracings no certainty no legal secretaries no hamburger clerks no disciplinarians? You want electric. So wait. Souhaiter.

Among, in medias res. Only immense, incalculable freedom. Sprouting from your fingers1 head2 feet3 blood4 will5. Infinite indeterminate incurable. I (self) I (you) I (we) = FREEDOM. This is just to say that form follows content follows inspiration follows moment follows situational context follows undiagrammed schemata follows (sometimes when the sky is smiling) synchronocity or harmony follows existence follows ?

1 Let them pluck the strings, hammer the keys, helmsman the pencil & see what happens. They too have free will.
2 Although it receives transmissions (voices), you may decide what to do with them.
3 The little bones, the important ones, lead you into gravel ash mud office playground alleyways.
4 Rushing where it will to accompany certain moments.
5 Flighty stable lackadasical seeking.

Let Boethius argue with his angel. You don’t believe in them anyway (you don’t believe in anything) unless of course you’ve chosen to. Faith is an unnecessary boon for those who are truly uncertain. Remember that Boethius was trapped in a cell. You – GO ROAM.

FREEDOM = scraping your stomach as you crawl naked onto the pier shaking your wet head like a dog swimming Lake Michigan 2 a.m. waving to the drunk drivers fingering the mandolin frets using music as a crutch gesturing towards something timeless or something decaying reading too much into conversations relying too much on intuition admitting layers making love and roaming.

No trapeze acts no gesticulations on the subway no hunter’s aim without recognition of freedom. No paint splattered no throat throwing melodies no translation of abstractions into image without a fist around freedom. Your blood already knows this and so does the world so turn within or without because your bones know the horizon knows.

Listen.

Involuntary ≠ power struggle hierarchy oval office blow job. Involuntary = These Things Occur. Involuntary = I Respond & Act As I Will. Involuntary = A Horse Stamping Seven Times When Asked “What Is Three + Three?” Involuntary ≠ no control. Involuntary = All Wills Are Free. Even the blood. Trapped in that hot room with manic beauty we’d all blush. I did.

FREEDOM = standing amidst ruins in the rain with soggy splintered edges poking out no hammer or nails in sight thinking Now what just walk away? Using your elbow as ball peen and your teeth as claw hammer. Go ahead. Bleed. Get a splinter. Sprain your ankle between the boards. Lose a tooth. I do it in dreams all the time. You’re designed to regenerate. You’re designed to decay.

Here again the existential crisis. May as well adopt mortality and its straining long consciousness. Adapt to all that empty space in your mind. You’re already home. You’ve got nowhere to go. No windshield, no driveway, no garage door opener. The keys = your ribcage. Intact. Designed to decay.

So what if futile. No escape from the gospel of mud. A finger points upwards. No plane in sight. Leaves whisk the ground. Sparrows like wind-up toys hop in November puddles. New moon camouflages in black sky. Schoolyard bully wind. Futility also = FREEDOM.

This is just to say that form follows content follows perception follows neural connections follows flashing synapses follows brain follows experience follows choices follows chance happenings follows free will follows genetics follows sperm infesting egg follows mad fuck on mud floor follows acid hippies alongside a VW bus in Mexico follows a collective revolution late 1960s follows a time for peace a time for war follows something beyond dualism follows ?

So you who chose not to be a stockbroker. You got it together you drain spiral you euphoria 2 a.m. you free wheeling you hot lava you harness all, all ways. You anti lost you tall water you just in time you free form you cast anchor in rich earth. No paths no rowboat no gondola. No oar no handmaiden no symmetry no helicopter no leapfrog no diverging paths and sure as hell no wood. You home already. No escape. The ribcage = skeleton keys to unlock. You. Go roam. You already home.