The Grand Continuum

The Grand Continuum

by Patrick J. Keough


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The Grand Continuum is a unique blend of poetic thoughts, which attempts to explain and define the concept of life.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781449078652
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Publication date: 03/12/2010
Pages: 136
Product dimensions: 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.32(d)

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The Grand Continuum

By Patrick J. Keough


Copyright © 2010 Patrick J. Keough
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4490-7865-2

Chapter One

In The Buff

I once thought about....

I once thought about.... And a whole bunch of other stuff. Fragment I remember waking up, then nothing more. Now it has begun to ring a silence in my head. It's through the void tunneled deep within. Human highway again and again. So much for talk and simple stuff. The time to march the Ides are rough. A marrow passage cut through the bone. I heard a fairy-tale of human clone. Satellite Stoned, via couch of the living room. Alone, freedom in my real home. Deep inside the rising moon, out of body, mind, my therapy. Singing in the night of the moon, satellite, I'll be alright. Marrow I sit in the hollow of my home, I sit alone. Next to nothing supports the thing, I sit on fabric with air between. Never knowing what is next, seldom seems I do my best. To be estranged, yet vital signs stimulate, and join the world to assimilate. All the noise has insulated my skull. The shattered fragments seep outward and fall. The beauty within is the beauty in me. Eyes shining speckles; a transparent tapestry. Can't seem to let go, can't seem to cling. Got one thing in common, neither mean a thing. Gypsy Claw Splitting away from the narrow line that splinters the everyday. One can imagine a reaction of enormity, upon lining the seam of reality. Shimmer and shake into a crystalline bead, and a Gypsy was born. Perceptions The conspiracy died from lack of energy. To retreat within, and begin again, is endemic of some priestly sin. I wrote out all of the invitations, but no one came. I suppose I should have mailed them. A Mexican woman pulled up to a stop sign in a big city. Casually glancing to her right she noticed a black man in the car next to her. She locked the doors and stared straight ahead. What she hadn't noticed was the white woman on her left, who also locked her door after glancing to the right. It's a chain reaction, this world of events. It's Begun To Matter At rest, I set myself at peace. Didn't know the name of my disease. All alone with everyone around me, I didn't know what would set me free. What would set me free? No more then, and no more now, doesn't matter, no need to bow. I remember counting the days. I count the days no more. I count the days no more. Mr. Starbucks Man One man reading a paper, while another rushes to work. Women talk of nothing, while their children go berserk. Pretty colored shelves, pastry puckered smiles. Cell phones ringing free, we caffeinate in style. The ego and the attitude, the lady with her man. The ego and the attitude, damn, she's got a nice tan! Excuse me Mister Starbucks Man, will you feed me my caffeine? I got a lot to do today, if you know what I mean? I wait here in your line, you see, to get my drug-filled tea. I'm a busy, busy, guy just take a look at me! Catching nervous glances, as they come and they go. Power, power, power from their head to their toe! This is America in every strip-laid mall. These are the important ones, no matter how big or small. I'm addicted to your smell, your colorful tinge. So hopelessly addicted, it makes me cringe. Our chips have been programmed, call it DNA. This place should be banned, call in the DEA! Excuse me Mister Starbucks Man, will you feed me my caffeine? I've got a lot to do today, if you know what I mean? I wait here in your line, you see, to get my drug-filled tea. I'm a busy, busy, guy just take a look at me! Alive I see your many faces, as I stare below. Together we exist in this sea-shaped paradise. Nothing to long for, except for the deliverance of the tide. We sing our freedom songs, and we're moved deep inside. I've been to this place, this beautiful vista, many more like it exist you know? Enchanted upon my return, drawn to its rhythm, its eternity. The true shapes of life, it walks in front of us, but few see its design. Along this path rings freedom to sing. There are some moments in time, not frozen, but calm. Somewhere from the deep within, sometime in the presents' past. It's hard to know exactly when, or why things just begin. But I know we'll meet again. I've been embraced within your soul, your womb. My fleeting moment, my time to use, and be alive. Refresh To the end of my energy; sex. A conquered temptation; sex. The mountain plays host to the silhouette of her breath. She breathes down upon me leaving me limp and sticky, a clump in my loin. I look, I watch, and I lay the trap, and then I get stuck. An addiction, a celebrity uninvited. To rid the mind of such destructive juice, is to squeeze the heart out of existence. What is right about the rape, the murder, the destructive temperament that is so desired, yet appalled by all public heresy? I have forgotten my brother. I have forgotten the very face of my keeper. Have I forgotten myself? Would the collective good deceive the Earth? Such good is perverse in its very nature. To argue is a waste of time, and to linger with the thought is an internal leak; a ripping within. There is a Big Bang in my heart, a trickling of desperation, which allows me to hold on to the last few pieces of feeling I have. It is this angst that tells me I am not dead; it is the fear that keeps me alive. To see movement on the street; sex. Anger and hatred, denial and malice, they destroy, and tear apart, the culture of existence. This is the most productive thing I can think of. Plunge In this cotton field of labor and lust, something becomes evident. The turning tides collide and down the slide he glides with that ever lasting pride, or perhaps it's suicide? It is just then this guiding light, well, actually it's the conscious right, which ignites the passion to pursue. It is a circumstance of condition, the very will of decision; he returns to his work. The sun beats down even in the rain, that the slain of the times contain. Big drops of life with the smack of reality, or more like the taste of creation. Would You Die For Me? Would you die for me? But, would you die slowly? No! I would live for you! Flush Brains are like wet rags. You can pick up shit and then wash them out. Today Has Been Good Today has been good, so far. At least in the sense that nothing bad has happened. My Boy My boy: You must be a man. Begin to understand. Allow nothing in your way. Get going you can't stay. Yes sir: It's time to harden the core. Begin to scar every sore. Understand from within, so my dreams may begin. Remember: You're a man made of steel. A man who can still feel. The magician of fiction, the man with no restriction. Never Take Off Your Pack All these emotions are billowing in, what is it that is happening? An incredible strength is beginning to form, it is as though a storm is approaching. Colors reflect in a different shade, a sudden hue and the thoughts expand, and contract inside and out. It is as if a mental diffusion is allowing the lesser universe to seep into the greater. I'm leaving ozone, an atmosphere, to rejoice in the turbulent nature of a new concept, one so familiar yet of fleeting circumstance; and this bridge to nowhere has led me back into myself. Hello, how are you? I am fine, thanks for asking. So this is what it is to be human, to exist for a purpose, for something greater than oneself? One plus one truly becomes three. That is a third variable to the equation. The variable to infinity, inside infinity like a straight line leading to somewhere. What could be more tempting than to bask in the unknown? The unknown to the majority. Pain did find me pleasure, the pain of sorrow, of grief, of hatred and deceit. I fell and got back up, I felt just a bit weaker than before. I fell again, and I got back up, and it became a pattern, a template for my humanity. And each time I was just a bit weaker than before, yet, convictions carry their burden. It is these convictions that have led to many aspirations. To aspire to be good is useless! To be bold, strong, thoughtful, again, all are a waste of egotistical vomit. So vile and disgusting it is, to prostitute one's convictions for the morality of the status quo, when they all worship financial gain. They have forgotten the face of their creator, their convictions carry no burden, just stress, just the psycho-babble of a societal neurosis. The storm is coming, I feel the wind, the sky is flashing; I see the tapestry draping the skyline. It is electricity; it is the nucleus of the nucleus, the energy of the soul of the universe. I carry my convictions like a pack slung across my back, I sojourn the atmosphere and spread out across the world like a million rays of light, cascading and penetrating throughout and back inside. Inside my mind where my journey was born, inside my soul where my journey has just begun. My emotions swell; they raise my skin across my back and down my arms. I feel behind my eyes, where the pulse begins to pump tears of joy across my face, and down upon the ground below; and the storm has begun within my mind. My convictions hold tight, while the world twists and my vision spins, I think I may fall yet again. But this time I'm sure I will get back up and carry my pack-filled convictions across my back. And this time I will be reborn like the green blades thrusting forth from the wet hillside of Spring. And I will sing and rejoice the finding of my soul, the discovery of my life. Behind The Wall The intensity rests inside, but it is fleeting. The girl comes when she pleases, innocents denude. She is flint upon the road, sparks my hidden desires. Fuel for the fire contained in my soul's hearth. Insanity comes to the un-quenched, to be sane for sure. It is temperance that should never have an idle thought. White flame, too hot to touch, too close to retreat. Allow it to envelope you, illuminate your life. Don't hold back the thoughts that derived creations universe. Foxy Moron-Fictitious Fantasy I wonder how Timothy Leary would have described the Internet? "Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out." And suck out every iota of your common sense! Light Inside Out Darkness comes, while the light follows. Nothing is seen living among the shadow. They enter the next, and settle in for one more time. Didn't know, didn't see, but eventually the density grew. Step on through to the other time, enter the leisure of sublimities. My thoughts are drying on the clothes line, sun spots and the colors bleed. I see the light, it is climbing high. One more night, the pride of insight will ignite. "Light up the sky!" I said. Bring your crystal amplifier thread. Is it alive or dead? Tuck the tender, the cold. Thick skin will not shed! And into the next we gather new strength. And into the next I never hesitate. Do you see it coming? Did you hear my refrain? What a fucking shame! Must I accept the blame? You're all insane. So fucking insane! I'm not the same. In the instant of creation they marveled most at witnessing their own demise. They strapped on their suicide disguise, and died, they all fucking died! No one cried, they paid the price. They fly across the zig-zag sky of ether never land, and illuminate my wisdom, beckoning me to join. I celebrate the destruction that has made this perfection. A white picket fence surrounds my soul. Recoil I appear to be playing tag with a snake. My actions are quickly reduced by its reflex. It gnaws on a nerve in the back of my mind, thrusting forth a spontaneous eruption. Don't let your child play in the park. The snake will get you after dark. Look at my little bird, very different, quite absurd. Harmless feathered protest, insides smear to grotesque. Tell me why, never lie. A happy day, in a horrible way. Mind decay, gentle ray. Today I join my mind. I must be ready! Conspiracy Contemporary usage of an affluent mind. Continual, temporary, brilliance left behind. Visionary void, realists prop. Adhere somewhere, voices against the clock. Thought, blood clot, sirens of wonder. Translucent code, moral thunder. Come out; come out, wherever you are. Shot in the back, dead lay the Czar. Human Tragedy Spiral staircase called humanity, nauseous tremble, reality blurred. Yet, sight is very puzzling after all! Creative burst of the situational beast, you know the one we all fear? Tell me neither what I'm doing nor the question in mind, but surround my lakes and forests with the smile of your beauty, the energy of your sight, and the almighty knowledge of history's cycle of confused evolution. Tragic thoughts encompass all purity. However, only purity can filter through the corruption, and provide the youth of tomorrow's Spring. The very insect smashed upon your windshield, aided in the emancipation of the flower in the field. Which we saw in the mall, and deceived ourselves with the idea that we could manipulate the artist's love by viewing the illusion of his painting. Yes, thoughts can be tragic. I Stand Alone Losing ground to the corner stone, locomotive muscle shown; I stand alone. In remembrance of the boy at name, heed it be the ancient flame; so man became. Sit below and wait the night. In the morning's past it may seem right. Another dream to wake from frightful moan, and yes, again, I stand alone. The Boys In The Mud Up, down! Up, down! Up, down! Translation from the optic. Burrow forth to the capillarian tomb. Carry on by way of the illusion. Life and the laceration blur the optic. I am a worm, carving a clean path through the earth. Join me tonight. Feel the power of our mother's breath, blowing about the mental capacity of tomorrow's youth. He whispered in my ear, "what have you come here for?" Merely a frightened question. "Are you scared?" he asks. "I am," I respond. Lucid nightmare, the experiment went wrong. Today a man let go. Weapons from the past freeze the boys' senses. Yearning to taste the blood of death, future soldier solidifies a country's foundation. Lingering lonely upon the cradle of slumber, we are the boys in the mud. Together we voyage the traumatic river, and crest the horned mountains, proceeding across the valley of bones, the bones of our past brothers. Their souls cracking under our boots justifies the spirit life, which looms behind. Little rest from the evening's journey. "Get up!" he screams. Lungs of hatred fill the room. Anger hidden behind duty; an excuse to live. We are the boys in the mud. Up, down! Up, down! Up, down! The optic gate has broken the trance. I see you for myself now; lies and trickery have spread across the land. We are not a result, but a product. And of what? Pull the trigger on yourself if you can't understand. They'll own your death. That's what your life really means, to them. A society racing to the finish line. Why? We are fools. We are the boys in the mud. Moscow It's another day in Moscow and I feel the buzz. There is movement all around me, while I sit very still. The sun is smiling down upon the labyrinth of so many wondrous people living everywhere I look, but not a single home in sight. It's ten a.m. on a Moscow morning, coffee high fading as the day begins. Here I sit six stories tall, hidden amidst the Soviet downfall. Another land for God to bless. Give me success. Give me the rest. Definitive The concept of an army in a Democratic land is organized barbarianism; rational insanity.


Am I crazy enough to realize my dreams? It seems that I am!

Chapter Two

Rippled Reflection

Rippled Reflection It seems to me that the essence of reflection has become overwhelmed. Not to mention that the spirit of attitude slips deeper into the asylum, which only buries the pride of a man's will. What may become of him who loses the effort of existence? A pathetic question, nearly rhetorical, yet true just the same. "Will you die for me?" I scream! "Will you die slowly?" I reiterate. Perhaps the question wasn't addressed to the proper party. In fact, the question may be internal combustion. A thought to swallow and an opinion is aired. However great, or noble, or even understanding a man is, the reality of that man's situation is the rationale, which sets the tone of the conversation. No more need to ponder the unknown, to dwindle in self-regret. The boot straps are getting quite short, and there is no time to lose. The sojourn seems a success when written as an experience, but when a hole is worn in his moccasins there is only discomfort, and the longing to be finished. The simplest things in this life may breed the tragic dilemma of confusion. It is this confusion that detracts from the life force, and promotes decay worth reckoning. Judgment day is everlasting, and the traitor speaks long enough to reveal his stolen silver. After all, to betray is to steal one's trust. Not to mention one's motivation to have faith in one's dream. The dream must succeed!


Excerpted from The Grand Continuum by Patrick J. Keough Copyright © 2010 by Patrick J. Keough. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


In The Buff....................1
Rippled Reflection....................23
Cardiac Arrest....................51
Holes In The Road....................73
Weaving The Pieces....................97

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