keeping something away from myself

is harder than ever keeping it away from all others, a feeling of what's been felt

like a monster of mechanistic mechanical deities in the mask of an elk

as you melt into crusts below the surface of the Earth,

I tried to give birth to something more than I, as an individual, will ever be worth

could ever be a part of as any true influence which captures an axial tilt,

yet here I am continuing the trial like a trapped spirit embodied as a curse,

a progressive insofar as I'm miles ahead in a hearse that's headed off the edge of all turf,

and the next true hope I'll ever really have is:

"Cosmic burial is my first option, should that ever work."

There are little pieces of yourself on the kitchen counter.

You find it in your soul to blink and look away,

wiring it all in writing for posterity,

because ink can draw outlines, maybe a little piece of you

will float back.


part of you hopes not,

as if there were

one thing you promised

you'd never do.

always offer a second option,

and be willing to fill the will of the optics

*** sometimes deep behind your

eyes you can feel eruptions of meaning, and beauty

of all past, present, and future

tenses spoken like tennis into a word we're all still computing,

post truth is an acute definition in the face of

Silicon Valley rising to a mountain without might,

something designed to sooner or rather than later erupt in a sight

of obvious devastation, tragedy, and existential

awareness and insight on the brevity

and obscurity of human infatuation with

their own genealogy, insights,

or winked eyes replaced in inked lines to

maintain a certain secrecy,

the answer being nothing in particular,

creepily.