And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.

It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes

The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?

So listen carefully.


The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon

I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties

This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars

So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen

Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.

This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack

Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in

So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.

Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.

I'm a lonely sailor, down four pitchers,
I'm high and low, how often I don't know.
I'm to take commands, I'm not on my own,
Days with bacchanals, nights with dark.
A deserted sailor, with a salient dream.
Whom I'm to speak with? The sea?
I've lost my tongue, I've lost me.

A pure path leading to the moon,
I hear the echolocation of whales,
It's the only company I can think of.
Threats passing within miles, with sharp red lines,
A twisted fate, I dream dancing on my grave.
I get old, I'm ranked high, my pockets are full.
My heart is dry, and smiles are wry.
Whom I'm to speak with? The sea?
I've lost my tongue, I've lost me.

Spinning around, trying to find myself through echolocation

Bouncing my sounds off of everyone else

To find where I am.

Stopping to breathe, heart racing

I realize what feels normal and needed

Is keeping me from the truth of me.

Standing still, emanating sounds

Not for validation

But for gift.

Because I stand in the place of something stronger

Than your feedback.

It is a place of bedrock and identity.

It is where He created me to be.

Dusk!

With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!

Bats!

Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,

These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*

Fibrous wings furred like a moth,

Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.

Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,

Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.

Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.

No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.

Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;

Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.

Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;

Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.

They live in darkness, centipedes do too,

Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.

Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,

Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.

Wind turbines endanger bats,

Like fans endanger lightning bugs.

Only one percent of bats are vampiric,

Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.

Dawn!

With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!

Bats!

Bats are bugs, aren’t they?

we were driving down the freeway
the air was humid in the 70s
and the cars in the opposite lane
looked like eyes trying
to tell me something
and if you were to swerve
i don't think I would stop you.

So we trudged through a field
of midnight grass
and the purple sky was
starless, the moon
barely had anything
to say
Neither did I
smoke billowing from the
slow suicide in my hand
I watched as it danced inside itself
casting a shadow over
the concrete ground
I want to
dance with you
tenderly as the
cancer danced with
the air.

And the wish flowers
populating the ground
were ghost memories
from my childhood so I
kicked them down and
watched as the burs
whisked away, telling
stories to their kin about how
they lived a worthy life
full of unfulfilled wishes

pool lights from your headlights
onto the white flowers
from the bush you almost ran over
I am so sorry
that you choose to throw away
love after love
I would know, you threw me away
just like
that time we
went to the poetry reading
you wrote in your
journal that you were happy I was here
I was happy too
you crumbled that page
and threw it in the
wastebasket.
So I crumbled my body
and threw myself
down the stairs.


But those poor souls
aren't as solid as mine
and although you managed
to crack me
I inserted a gold plated
filling so I can
sparkle in sunlight
but they do not
have the strength
nor the wits to
do that.

they way the brain works
if one of us can do it,
we all can.
that means we all can
echolocate.

have you seen the story?
young man born blind
learns to see
using echolocation

learn to see.
that's why perception is so valid.
why experience is so scared.
why our messages are necessary.
we can learn to see,
what we choose
and the truth.

the truth of origin
has to lay within
me
and you.
we are parts of the whole -
shattered glass pieces
will never become plastic.
that's how I see
It.

To be a simple observation…

we are only
observationally connected
here.
within the atmosphere of our beings
we speak the tongue of essence.

as I peered through the
crystal clear lens
I recognized the tiny protective hairs
and the curve of the lid.
I was amazed that this
perspective
was new.
I wondered when I would
see it again.
and I wonder and I wander.
because that's what the brain does
when its not echolocating,
or meditating.

illusionary cultural beliefs
accepted and embraced as personal
truths
have desensitized our
senses.

commonly, the senses
are rounded into five.
though echolocation would obviously be
six,
vibration communication
seven,
the list goes on…


eyesight is indescribable.
Thanks! be given to the power to see.

so many have "bad" eyes.
recent technologies like
Lasik
are changing that though.
who needs echolocation anyways?

There is a woman in Europe who drinks coffee at midnight. She has purple hair, but once upon a time, it was brown and she cut it under the table in first grade and let another girl get in trouble for it. She never said a word, let the guilt eat through her bones at night for weeks.
There is a woman in Ireland who is afraid to drive on the left side of the road, although she once ruled the California freeways in her blue pumpkin-turned-purple carriage. With a negative sense of direction and a never ending supply of menthols, she got lost so many times that she had no choice but to be found.
There is a woman in Galway whose skin is laced with ancient spiderweb scars. Years ago, they were angry, open tubes of crimson paint that children had stomped on when no one was looking. But everything fades, even acrylic paints and ancient pains.
There is a girl in Kinvara who is practically a professional at destroying nice things. She tried her hardest to make something beautiful but she was never much use at creation; better at cremation. Burning, bleeding, bruising-- these are her areas of expertise. She has learned to stop hiding from her secrets and her sins and her skin, that it is okay to be made up of matchsticks. She washes her hands too often, but that's okay, right? There are worse things a girl can do. At least, that's what they tell her…
But she's had enough of the poison they've been trying to sell her.


s.h.

My cat howls at night. I sometimes wonder why.

I don't think it's 'cause he's lonely.
The door is open a crack and he knows how to get in.

Maybe he's going deaf. I heard that can happen.
"They howl real loud, like echolocation."

Or maybe my cat is a mutant.

All I can tell you, when he starts up like that,
is when I call his name he stops.
And comes into the room.
And jumps up on the bed.
And starts to purr.

So here's what I think—
that maybe what he's doing,
when he howls like that,
is scaring away the monsters so we can sleep.

Activate prior knowledge,
like a tumor that resembles
a painting of Churchill,
circumlocution
more like an echolocution…
or is it echolocation,
perhaps electrocution?

The sigils of universal coincidences
have finally revealed themselves.
They’re aligning for you
right this very second.

A hair from your head
laying in the bathtub
that reminds
you of a letter
from a long forgotten
language.

A random pattern of a scratch
on your arm from a outstretched
coat hanger in a department store.

An odd configuration of blood
on your arm after you dispense
a pesky mosquito.

A rorschached blob of a condiment
on your favorite shirt.

It’s out there trying to tell
you something very important.

There.

In those things lies the truth.
As much as you don’t want to
believe in it…
As much as you want to
deny it.

It will not live
up to your
memory of it later
on.

If all my words were mating calls,
And all my poems merely
The slapping of the waves by
A whale's fins to garner some attention,
If the purpose of all my work
Was only echolocation,
What answer can I make
When a listener surfaces
From the deep, calm and
Implacable, a beautiful inevitability?
What can I say when the man
I dove for comes to me
And says, Here I am,
You can stop calling now,
I will not leave.
What then, when I hold
Coleridge's flower in my hands?
What can I do now - I who have
Pressed my pen to the grindstone
For the purpose of finding him -
Now when all I know to do
Never needs doing again?

I come out of the oven
Joining a witch's coven
I am born
I must live
So forlorn
I must give
My heart and soul
For pieces of gold
Until I am buried
In the pieces I carry

I could tell by the smell
You were a bat out of hell
Using echolocation
To sense simple vibrations
Buried under my rib cage
You gave me hope
That I'd die of old age
And not on a rope

Good things come
Good things go
I look for the sun
Buried in snow
How have things gotten this low?
I convince myself I don't know
While I watch you disappearing
From people interfering
The pain is searing
And all I'm hearing

From the womb to the tomb
Buried in diminishing room
By the dark clouds that loom
They form a lightning storm
At first it feels warm
But then rain starts to gather
And Earth is flooded
So I'm pushed down the ladder
By the cold blooded
Until I can find no peace
Only grease
To keep moving faster
So I can be an outlaster
And laugh at the unmarked graves
Of those that made me feel shame

I was born with fire in my heart
It was a funeral pyre from the start

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The voices are ringing in my ears, a thundering conundrum I have yet to figure out. He's screaming, no he's whispering, oh I can't tell anymore, from a thunder to a shiver its all the same to me I'm deaf I'm blind I see with echolocation I am a bat in its cave begging to see the light though I know it burns.

Each sentence blurs to the next a word a whisper oh there I go with whispers again did I forget a comma, some punctuation? Sorry my mind is a mile a minute when it feels such frustration in its bones that it cannot feel its toes anymore.

Wait, my brain doesn't have toes.

Nonsense. I am practically a wonderland character with all my nonsensical drivels about love and mania and speed and tears and lust and death. Give me a hat and I'm practically batty, my good sir. I will make a march with my hair and wish you a very merry un-death-day, or however that goes.

Falling down my rabbit hole, no my cave, I'm a bat, remember? I have found a way to fall sideways right into your heavy arms and you stare at me aghast, for I am not who you once thought I to be. There is a face for each hue, each color of my pigments, I'm a leaf, each season brings out a different color, well unless your coniferous but that is besides the point and very much more about needles, but I digress.

Wait, I'm a bat. What is this nonsense about leaves?

Sit down at my table and I will explain it all to you dear, how my brain is wired like a ticking time bomb, ready to set off at any moment, particularly if my pretty little pills aren't butterflying in my bloodstream, those little friends of mine simply forgetting a swim day.

Funny how one day without them can be average or it can be, well, this. Quite mad, isn't it? Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock, the clock struck twelve and the bat swept down and the mouse is left to rot. Tick tock, tick tock.  

Give me a cat or two and then there's a name for me, but I bet your bottom dollar every single one is a chesire, grinning, tormenting, taunting, killing. They reflect the little demons in my heart.

Have you ever been so afraid of your own reflection, or the butter knife at the end of your table, and how it might just slip into your fingers at ever the wrong moment and you might regret your next action for the rest of your life? I've only once or twice, but it was a once too many, and now I'm terrified of that little butter knife resting on the end of my table, taunting my demons, knowing how much I fear them.

Should I be a true ****** and enter a hospital? No, I will never learn honesty, all these thoughts kept up in my pretty little head will never leave my pretty little head, they enjoy their tenancy too much. Just pop the pills, Grace, darling, and everything will be ok.

A few more hours, and then I can be reunited with my dear little friends, and like the good little bat I am, recoil back into my cave, and let the butterfly angler I wiggle out be the beautiful front everyone sees. No mad hatter, no march hare, no alice, not even a bat. A pretty butterfly that everyone loves.

If only they knew what this butterfly had behind her; a cave full of wonderland.

And everyone should be afraid of that.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

I can hear the baby quail,
they’re telling me, from in the hay bales
and chirping like little frogs.
While they themselves
**** back their bog pockets,
bloom, press the weak wood, and leak to me.
The trickle-slap pipistrelle
in subito notes, that hit and fall,
that explain to me so frantically.
crooning to me so mutually
and between themselves,
like organs pumping air into each other.

The birds sail on it over fields
relying on the attitude of the night,
feeling out its hot rushes.
In sensory geography,
dependent on a mood of its own.
In an ocean, emancipated from the moon.
The sky-lung, plays its shivering reeds
Where the spores, the sycamore, shattering
in crochets, quavers, in minims,  
on any mistral score
are mooring till but a touch of direction.
It hears all of what my fingers feel. 


It tastes all of which my eyes are witless.
The asp in the verge tasting me
with undulating flick of forked tongue
in aromatic echolocation,
both received and given by all.
The curious noses of foxes
between the furious foxglove
sifting out the berries of effort,
of strain and sweat in fur
haunting out from the stems.
There they find the scared,
shouting in the language of the animal.

And when the colours leave the flowers with the day  
the night is painted in flavoursome air.
The night which licks at your ear,
the night that chatters amongst itself,
sonic charybdis,
whirling in the moth-light.
The dark side of the earth
is facing me.

Satin sheets
Like when daddy used to pull them up and down in quick succession
Sending out pretty little waves of air
Searching for you
Like echolocation
And they'd puddle around you
Like tiny hills and valleys
And you
a smooth little rock
Ensconced in a blanket of snow
All covered up
stay there
It's warm, and quiet, and soft
The light filters in in slow pulses
You let your eyes shut over sepia screens
(you wish this was eternal)

We met on common land
Sharing a favorite band
We started holding hands
And I felt absolutely grand
Following your similar strand
But I began to feel ******
Once I saw you had planned
To burn me with your brand
You had my idiosyncrasies scanned
So you could start acting bland
Once I was on your nightstand

While trying to give me an *******
You put on a fake southern inflection
Thinking it’s in vogue to be Texan
You’re more like Rogue from the X-men
Spreading your shapeshifter infection
Trying to pass your suitor’s inspection
You hide your personality from detection
Like a jaded politician during an election
You give the people what they want
Until they love you
Your similarities you constantly flaunt
Until they’re subdued

Your metamorphosis
Informed my bliss
By eating from my dish
You fulfilled my wish
Of finding who I’m looking for
Not knowing what’s in store
Once I start to see more
Deep down to your core
To find an empty floor
Behind a locked door

Raised as a changeling
With trends ranging
From punk rocker
To athletic boxer
In a life where validation
Is another person’s creation
Needed for ego inflation
That’s given as placation
For your simple sedation

Now you’re a shapeshifter
Looking to ape misters
As you forsake sisters
For date blisters
Creating a friendless drought
So when you’re down and out
You need a man who’s devout
While I look at you with doubt

I come to you with problems
You can’t help me solve them
You just listen to what I say
And then press replay
A form of redundant consolation
So issues I don’t relay
To avoid your echolocation
While my soul is filleted

Your Houdini act
Voodoo genie tact
Garnered a time pact
By tricking a blind bat
Through a mind hack
Which gave me great pain
The size of a Great Dane
For a misery refrain
After you interest feigned
To enjoy my reign
But your interest waned
And you quit the game
Saying I’m to blame

Once I’m replaced
You build a new face
On the one you erased
For another embrace
While losing all grace
Looking for an ace
To take you away from this place
Where you’ll always remain
An abrasive codependent strain
Viewing relationships as games
Or obstacles overcame
You become the bane
Of another’s lane
Causing rain
In their brain

Your focus on mimicry
Is super gimmicky
Pretending I didn’t see
Your lack of personality
When you can only parrot what other people say
You become an amalgamation of those you date
Which isn’t the worst but definitely isn’t great
When we should just organically relate

Aye, chihuahua, canis familiaris,
land piranha nipping at Aztec heels.
 
Aye chihuahua!
 
Heart of a Techichi warrior
becoming yipping snarling *****,
eyes pulsating, patellas luxating
at the stench of **** erectus
US-es post-alus carrier-alopulus
approaching, adorned in
sky colors crowned in ivory pith.
 
She is fed on belly rubs and Kirkland’s
grain free turkey and pea stew
in the red can, served in a faux
Wedgwood bowl which she gently
mauls in her tiny maw with the
crooked right canine.
 
Queen Sharma is a diminutive avenger  
who brooks no men, except Daddy,
yet dotes in squealing delight
at the touch of women and children.
 
Her territory, a peed-on scent trail,
extends from Guinevere to Lancelot
to Tristram to Merlin to the end
of Camelot Lanes, Streets and Places.
Neither hated squirrels, rabbits
and other canine species are allowed.
 
She can neither jump on the sofa
nor forge mighty streams.
What she lacks in peripheral vision
she makes up for in astute echolocation
and good stiff sniffs of her nose.
 
Yet she has a deep dark secret
that stains her royal dreams.
The scruff under her neck to the chest
in the russet form and color of a fox,
which she struts with a rooster’s pride,
is the product of her Chi-Chi mater
cohabitating with a spritz of Pomerania,
making her neither chihuahua nor pomeranian,
but yes, an adorable pomchi!
 
Yet that neither bothers her nor me
as she paws at the bed covers draping the
leader of this pack, burrowing under to
be close to my side, and dream dog dreams
of walks and car rides and never leaving me.
of walks and car rides and never leaving me.

I'm unapproachable;
Antisocial - like the last polar bear
pondering where all the ice went.
This apocalyptic wasteland's death grip
strikes like Spock's back hand,
but lacks the tenacity to finish them.
Unkempt revenge - pit me against the spent.
I'm locked in combat with these autopilot pussycats
as they feverishly flutter by life on burnt batteries.
I'll stay strangling the head of a lantern
while banging on the door of the Banished
'till those mother ******* get fed up and answer.
I'll subdue every corner of evolution 'til
I grow fangs and communicate via echolocation.
Then I'll circumnavigate the coliseum
like Casper tweaked out on freedom.
Throw away your crucifixes, Lucifer.
That's not what you're supposed to use them for.
This is just linguistics infused with an acid drip;
Fourth dimensional Hieroglyphics ripped
from the pages of forbidden scripture
then translated through star patterns.
You see a pentagram, I see an anagram
dispelling your dimwitted notions.
A page from the past - A name tag crippled
by your misplaced primitive gasp.

Friends, while reading about Quantum fields, vibrating energies and frequencies, which form an unseen but an important part of our life and existence, I got the idea to compose a short poem about Echo. Hope you like this simple poem. With best wishes, - Raj Nandy, 24 July, 2022, New Delhi.

((( ECHOES THROUGH THE CORRIDORS
                        OF TIME )))

Ever since our Universe with the Big Bang
evolved some 14 billion years ago,
Plasma waves had reverberated through
interstellar space and continues to do so.
They have been detected as a background
humming noise which our Cosmologists
have claimed, -
As the echoing birth pangs which had
given rise to the Universe itself!

We know that bats use their echolocation
to navigate in the dark,
And the SONAR echoes can detect under
water enemy Subs.
Our life is an endless echo, but what we
utter and say,
Comes back to us like the boomerang
one fine day!
Therefore, we must mind the words
we utter and speak,
Since our echoes like our shadow, shall
continue to follow us and seek!

History is a symphony of echoes which
often repeats itself with time.
Even though we have failed to heed its
echoing sounds most of the time.
Perhaps because it fails to sing or rhyme!

Our very thoughts which pop-up continuously
like bubbles from our conscious mind,
Also dissipate and vanish with the passage of
time.
But some of those thoughts remain as echoes
to haunt us later in our dreams,
When the subconscious mind seeks wish
fulfillment during our restful sleep.

In our finely tuned universe the feeling of love,
joy, and happiness, are but echoes of God’s
life within.
Let our footsteps echo down the corridors
of time, -
To make our present journey complete!
                                                       ­    -Raj Nandy.

Swirling bats and dusk
clicking echolocation
above the blue pool
in the verdant east Texas pine trees

Mars and Saturn
rise above the treeline
as a fast moving satellite
streaks by from south to north

Cicada calls surround
as the frogs join in
raucous cacophony
of insects and reptiles

I sit on the deck
sipping margarita on the rocks
and watch and listen
to natures show, as I drip dry

The cactus needles gleam in the sun
the desert wind blows a constant hum
a dust devil spins in the distance
jack rabbits scatter as a hawk dives

A pair of Gambel's quail run by
their topknots bobbing
as the sun begins to set
cicadas emerge and sing

The coyote pack joins the chorus
as the night hawk calls poor-will
and the bats swoop and eat
insects, clicking echolocation

I am annoyed by the speeding lights
of the highway in the distance and
wishing it wasn't there to disrupt
the desert evening, into night show.

Behind heartbeat’s syncopation
Where deepest beats are lain
Is Love’s echolocation
That mutual refrain

Which gives Love’s life
To the world, to all and everything
Hearts romp together to resplendent tune
Love’s sweet carolling

I drift and drown in dreams of thee
Summoned from treasure-chest of Mind
Although not yet harnessed to reality
The dream was splendorous and kind
It left a sheer, serene sensation
Like running riot in the rain
It triggered heartbeats’ echolocation
That mutual refrain
I feel my life is better for having been
Opened to all that’s in your world
Inside the enigma of your soul I’ve seen
In my heart affection swirled

To love, or cede to dark, that is the choice:
Be the force of light overwhelming, it is yet besieged
By the knives and punches of circumstance
Which yet the Heart transcend
And in its echolocation with like Heart sings. To beam - to soar
In perpetual eternity. The Heart never sleeps,
Constituted by its aches and victories
That resembles ten thousand suns blazing on in song
Incarnated in the flesh of the lover
Love is heir to childhood
Consummating divine principles
To which the faithful are devout
For in the blaze of love and life we wake to go wild
And wear our hearts on our sleeves, proud,
Committed to Heaven from which rose a great knight
My lover, whose destiny sublime
To vanquish hell and transcend time

Light is dying, my spark squashed, gasping for one last crackle
Made into an effigy of a loser by harsh hands, adorned with knives
That slap me in to submission
And cut off all the residual fat of my compassion
Till what is left of me is not nature
But a bundle of gray neuroses
And an acidic bitterness that dissolves joy
Words are my sanctuary
Words that convey affection
That, like magic, move in my ears and brain
It’s a game of roulette if electricity’s commute through the body is cruel or kind
I am constantly looking for another heart to mimic the light of my own, divine echolocation
I like compassion that isn’t thoughtlessly advertised
Compassion that isn’t just a slogan to afford faceless corporate monoliths an air of humanity, who all year, all around the world, wage war on human brotherhood and love
True compassionate acts are currency of a gift economy which creates a multiplier effect for optimal outcomes
The fine tuned science of solidarity
One day I will talk of depression in the past tense
And be an ocean of strength and prominent in the universe

speak now
or i'll stop the movement
dripping, draining, drooling
my bones skip a beat
and fracture my heart
where the thought lies
between tongue and cheek
where i floss my teeth
where i'm meant to be

on my bedside table
a glass of water breaks
my blankets cover crumbs
i am swallowed like *****
i am lost like a bat with no eyes
echolocation be ******
i'm not moving
no matter how you'd like it

nocturnal creatures prowl,
slit pupils, dilated, watch,
tapetum reflecting ambient light,
circadian rhythms lost.

hands reach out,
darkness blinds,
fingers find things,
can you identify?

clicks and pops,
echolocation.
a skill,
undeveloped.

moonless night,
cloud-covered,
complete blackness,
like sackcloth.

pure fear encased,
soundless as well,
sensory deprivation,
panic attack.

running, running,
walls, banged,
glass broken,
tree branches scratch.

or is it claws
and teeth attacking,
blood dripping from cuts,
marking an unseen path.

sharpie bats lit against knotted wormy water in the fugue reservoir

wings caught and pinned on lonely patches of grass

her nightly squirming huffed and inked into jittery night critters

swarming her thighs

a bearded moth dazes off over the Gordian whitewash

pipes pumping a current of his brothers bodies

wet wings and carcasses, the lure of consequence

the bearded moth did not get too lost, sensitive to

the drawings of his furry devourers from the girl beside him

she says insects have never touched her blood

from the ether he thinks startling wing twitches,

punk echolocation, apologies learned not to be given,

touching water, even distribution of limbs

dripping disintegrating becoming the age of the earth

but the bearded moth

plays it cool and dries in the shape

of a man that looks apologetic. maybe honest.

she’s satisfied and sends a thousand

paper bats to rip apart the reservoir and

pull the grass closer together.

this is no one’s chance.

Madison and Mason si
But Qualyxian the Quest
Rendezvous with Destiny
Gonna do my level best

Xiao gives me Chinese food
I say xie xie ni
Mr. Bill Porter
Fo Guang Shan to see

Lunch at Cinco de Mayo
Alex in Tucson
What the hell's a Hoya?
We in Gamla Stan

Mason in the CAA
Colonial Assassination Association
On my knees to pray
Plus a little echolocation

         Mr. Wayne: Good luck.

*** is difficult
Riding trains is easy
When she was 16
Yes indeed she pleased me

*** is fantasy
Touch but do not reach
Reality is dailiness
Latin he did teach

Fr. Reginald Foster
Terminator 2
One of a kind to find
First Things I.O.U.

Am I still a teacher?
Do I Mason Nation?
ChiTown, don't give up.
Even with predation.

Batman: echolocation.

Crystal clear faces shatter under the unforgiving weight of rutine.
Feelings once pure and noble, now deranged. Bootprints adorn them, as purpose fades.

Debased; the mud-covered carcass of the man I used to be.

Truths kept locked beneath meat-shaped vaults.
Answers to all and none.
Their absence soothes my mind's ailment,
while sewn shut teeth spoon feed my veins a welcoming dose of cyanide.

Pockmarked stains on the walls and sheets.
Light and comfort are kept wrapped in tight chains;
prisoners of the amorphous grey demons looming over this city of old.

My next step casts its shadow on the moon, for down is the only way up.

And even though hope was convinced to leave by two-faced rascals with no care for our ecosystem, a sketch of its meaning is etched into this crackling skull.
Echolocation is the method of choice then, so as to hope that it's not too late.
That newly formed abominations may one day give its secrets away.