Machine Gun Eddie

by

Machine Gun Eddie

The original place was a sense of presence (after the big bang). It sat on a hill like a
sniper without wildlife to blindly pick off in the distance. It sat on a hill where definition
was lost and existence was found as an empty landscape preparing for history. No one
could be heard, but deep in the darkness a “him” was being sung as a means to know
itself as the pre-mature birth of the mind – a non-event where stories of life flocked
to their barracks. It was called vast (but was only the past), an explosion of color
where red backgrounds of cascading footnotes gave meaning to what wouldn’t relax.

He called himself Machine Gun Eddie. His was a soul that took aim at everything
except the particular, the chemical and the obvious. In a world undefeated by
context, he salvaged purpose with the mystical in his crosshairs. Room unkempt,
he smiled at the absence of God and believed in trajectory – there were random
updates for which he knew the scope (and was willing to kill for) unwilling to locate
the motion that lives in stasis. There was no time for hide and seek he would say –
bending the mind from “always was” to the metal slag of “mind hasn’t always been.”

The truth of this tale is the assumption of progression. It’s about infinite rounds
being fired without knowing the trigger in the center. It’s about coming of age
while lost to the original place and what was before the sense of presence. It’s
about forgetting the foundation of seeing himself morph from immature Ed to
Machine Gun Eddie – both born from the same illusion, a crusading instinctual
animal, not void. The range of his life was practice, not reality. He never saw the
gun he held was turned against himself. It was the only origin he could almost know.

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