There is a hit and run in my mind
And the police are too preoccupied with their phalluses
To even notice.

A lonely man, befuddled by the blunt object that hit him from behind, fades away into nothing while his crimson blood mixes with the juice of blueberries he had just bought. The pavement turns purple, and for just a split second the scene turns from tragic to comic.

The State of Mind is policed by the principles of democracy. The system is simple: The Cerebellum is the parliament, all my cognitive skills are the representatives, and the body of voters is constituted by whichever arbitrary thoughts that enter my head that day. But in reality my mind is goverened, only by the singularity of chaos. The voters don't know, but the Cerebellum knows. The representatives will never know for sure, but there is a slight tint of discontent, gnawing away, every day, at their thoughts, while they drink their coffee and type endlessly on typewriters, even though computers have been around for a quarter of a century.

You see, chaos is regressive and progressive simoultaneously. Chaos is when time unleashes logic. The future reprecussions of a chaotic event may be necessary, inevitable and perhaps even for the good of humakind and the larger universe, but the passage between vain violence, anarchy, destruction; and the ultimate moral redemption of the event; the moment where we comprehend the possible benevolence of past horrors. Chaos is logic when time is suspended.

Saccharine kisses
The sweetest I had
Didn't even happen.

You know them. Those twisted facese you pass
in jeering wonder. Speckless shoes that step
over the ugliness with the grace of a gazelle,
ignorant to the trash that floats freely.
     "Everything is okay," you might say,
but you have to keep your head up high,
you chin reaching to the sky
evading the lie of this swinish reality.
Wading through the garbage, a life spent in
such a curious denial
of this rancid year
of our lord.
     Something slides along the pavement outside.
Wailing and blaring, up and down the street,
probably in response to some heinous crime.
Response unit useless
caller, niner STOP
Too much blood STOP
"Personally, sir, I think that in this world,
the only crime–the only real crime–is the crime
of getting caught, over..."FULL STOP

Ion, break away from the atom
Ms. Tharpe breaks away from the piano
And goes on to the guitar
She sings in perfect tenor
Of her journey to the sky

Wax wings, willing to thaw
Just to draw a parallel
Between above and below
No paradise; just a scorching sun
With Icarus she fell to earth
Burning with the yearning
To be free.

In an ocean cave
Dying, merely by falling/Flying, merely by falling
Finding, merely by calling
For the Lord
Be it 'Jesus,'
or someone else

We are born into an invisible grid, each and every one of us Intersubjective, but never intertwined.
What does it feel like to be a woman?
What does it feel like to be a man?
What does it feel like to be?
What does it feel like to be in another grid?
Deathly silence, a metaphysical barrier.
You may stare into foreign eyes and drive the probe of your celestial self into the deepest flora of "the other."
You may explore the ground beneath "the other's" feet
Until eternal oblivion sweeps you away.
But you will be none the wiser
You and I will never comprehend the inner clockworks, the intellectual mechanisms, the factory of the mind.
Even if the black ribbons of smoke from cement chimneys continue to rise,
Even if the mechanism continues to churn,
Even if the clockwork continues to tick,
Until the suspension of time,
You will be alone with yourself
And I will
–In all the glory of human futility–
Keep on searching.

'                                                                
                                                                 We are the riders of high waves
                                                           ­               in the screaming storm.
                                                          ­                            Traveling
back                                                            ­                       and                                                              ­           forth
back                                                       ­                            and                                                              ­           forth
back                                                       ­                            and                                                              ­           forth
                                                           ­             until time suspends itself
                                                          ­                       and we lose grip.

Still on the air, racing through hyperspace. Racing toward the ultimate, dashing for the übermensch within, the perfect human being, outliving the greasy machinery of our collective existential crises. Trudging down the proverbial road in swinish runs
back                                                          and                                                          forth
Collecting the critical fragments of out minds from the bowels of life's desert, only to find that they have gotten perverted with the rank rot of maggots, festering, crawling through the remains that were left from our conception and subsequent birth, poorly mummified.
But alas, too many millenniums have past.
Too many millenniums.
Too many.

As we search between the cacti, avoiding the venomous bite of the rattlesnake, battling the heat, our wristlet watches tick.
Tick, tick, tick away with the unfair certainty that the watch will keep ticking through the arbitration of time.
Through the arbitration of the flexible human condition, surrounded by the deafening stasis of the world.
The deafening tick, mocking our decay, celebrating its own infinity.

T.S. Eliot might say “Dare disturb the universe.”
I say “What the ****. **** **** up.”

Ten Koruna rooms,
****** doused in red light. Purple, then blue.
Sickness and health dancing
In the street to the thumping bebop of the night
Veins and heads filled to the brink with:
Crank,
smack,
****,
goofballs,
Neon lights.
The bad ***** is optional.
The city twists and bends in the chrysalis night, uncoiling.
Azure skies of deep summer, polluted
Only by the glare of candles
In living souls on slow pavement.
They burn, burn, burn, bury their heads
In thrills and friends.
They burn until there is nothing left,
But a white speck of off white wax sizzling
Away in the darkness.

Silence...







Silence...






There are no explosions in space.
There is only expenditure.

For every second
Of every minute
Of every hour
Of every day
We are in a constant state of dying.
The same way
For every second the sun
Spends across the sky
It is setting.

Vertical zig-zag, eyes rustling, traveling upward, levitating to the ceiling.
The dream catcher does her no good. No dreams are intercepted, no dreams are recollected and assembled, forever lost in the ether. No making sense of the fragments of her ailed mind. "I wish I had something to drown my thoughts in," she thinks. She remembers saying something like "**** this endless, dragging, churning night," lingering on every syllable, as if waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. As always.
But there is a faint sound, the sound of a siren, wailing up and down her street outside. Her pupils expand, like the tide on the shore
Suddenly the ringing voice of a mouth long gone snuffs away beside her, and the last piece of someone left the room at that very moment.

Was there a point to this story?
Maybe?
Probably not.

When I am calm
I am a storm
When I am a storm
I am calm

The calm
Before the storm.

I want something to drown out the thoughts in my head
But I don't want to go back to bed

I'm falling out for hours at a time.
When will the sun shine?

And my thoughts drown in noise
but I still miss your voice.