All life is all life
what if the universe is only the same to God as a lung to a human
and it has been expanding all this time because it is inhaling
wildest dreamers, you will never understand
plucking holes in your sky to make starlight
your mastery of nothing, the whole world in your hands
flounder from your waters onto the surface of these pale gray sands
struggle abreast of gravity to wade into catastrophe
void of perspective, what awaits

Colors never seen
the veins of membranes of the vastness
serving as the trail of flashes
warp, witnessed hundreds of years later
incomprehensible the digestion or detection
of the farthest Allfather; far from one, another
it is not meant to be known by tongue or thought
or possibly perceived when shown, or learned or taught
speak to it, if it were to utter one stone silent syllable
gently, lovingly, answer, or flinch, or twitch
all this precious, infinitesimal life would instantaneously perish

Dream and dream of miraculous cosmos
skip rope with wormholes, hopscotch down the Aesir's Bridge
softly pull a strand of fire from the sun to compose  
in brilliance etch your words into nebulous prose
all life will be renewed
defile my God internally
and ask what you need
not what you can get, or can't have
kneeling in prayer on the moon
dreaming of home within yourself
meditating on life, all life
and all life is, all life is.

Face down on the concrete
Twin roaches scurry fast, awake at last
Where are you, what is this, who are you?
The door ahead opens the wounds to your past

The gap in the door is a separate reality
TWO ZERO FOUR EIGHT SIX THREE
The only me is me…

Is this my life?
I walk before myself, following someone,
Am I me or someone else?
I can feel the burden of his crimes take their toll
As midnight is pressed into my flesh
Piercing and retracting, always in; one eye always watching through the hole
This voice accuses me of the apparency, that I killed my family

The father shot his pregnant wife in the belly
And his ten-year-old son in the chest when he came to see,
Two Zero Four Eight Six Three
Then luring his six-year-old daughter out of the bathroom, he shot her Two  
Who was the only one with sense to hide, by telling her it was just a game
And hung himself in the garage with a garden hose, with an umbilical cord,
A similar crime occurred, unrelated, but the same,
The children are screaming, a murdered pregnancy, Zero years of life
He finished his family off with a butcher’s knife,
A family of Four

I saw me walking in front of myself,
But it wasn’t really me,
Neighbors had heard him chanting the numbers, as if a spell
Two zero four eight six three
Days before the incident, they call to me from hell

Gouging the eye out of her photograph, it matches what I see
Everywhere I turn the wailing, crying, screaming, sobbing, haunting, guilty memory
Running through the endless corridors of gore and horrors, breathlessly
When she appears, shuddering in her filthy dress and decay, out of tune with this dimension
Am I a guest in this nightmare, I remember the suffering vaguely, who am I, who is she?

Don’t touch that dial, we’re just getting started
For all you listeners out there in radioland,
Give the baby a hand,
A contorted fetus deposited in the sink
Distressed cries, laughing after midnight
Raspy unnatural breaths, grip tight to a flashlight
Green, blue, red, yellow, and normal light
I am lost in variations of the same night
Look behind you
I said, look behind you

Face down on the concrete
Awake at last, scurry to your feet fast
Where are you, what is this, who are you?
The bag behind you tries to warn you, you may not be trapped in your past
What you see, certainly, all of it may be true
The only me is me, are you sure the only you is you?

It’s a minute to midnight, the knife is retracted just a hair from the artery
Give it a minute and you know exactly where it will be
Wander forever, she always catches up to you, to us, to me
Bones break and sever, leaving no trace or mystery
By the window, the stairs going down, in the open hallway or on the balcony
You embody the man who killed me, you slaughtered your family
The screaming in the fridge is not the voice of the unborn baby
Infanticide and mariticide ending with your suicide
Ending with unending purgatory, a gory story of your punishment
Lisa, please forgive me, there is a monster inside
Of you, I will expunge it with homicide
You listened to them, calling you to violence
And everything you were, you wore a falsehood that you rose out of, we know you lied
You have been chosen to wander, witness and wonder at fresh hell in silence
Welcome to the hillside

My voice, can you hear it!
TWO ZERO FOUR EIGHT SIX THREE
This sign, can you read it?
Two Zero Four Eight Six Three
I’ll wait forever if you’ll just come to me.
Two Zero Four Eight Six Three
I’ve been behind you always
And you’ll never escape these hallways
The two fathers, two crimes, two times, with no chance of escape, forever, eight victims, six fragments complete my image, they will never know the end, it’s just us three, you and you and me.

Talk of peace as rivers of life flow from your fingers
a shadow of a shell meaning well still within the shattered soul
foul and fell sitting there on the shore still lingers
your intentions prowl from the blurry hell, dull embers in your skull
a fire that hides from other light, deep down in a hole

In line with design, deigned to reign the stars malign
warlord's prayer, profit rules divine, oh men see everything but the sign
tie your notes and postcards to carrion birds, whose beaks will wine and dine
wet in the flesh of you before the last night is through, no good killers resign
plan to feign the bane of prophets, trained to rain remorseless, streaks of fire like red twine
inherited these causes, never known the pain, only been loaded onto a plane to fight your father's fight; your sons will do just fine

Newsman come and cover our tears, we weep for the world to see
a message that no one ever hears, the tale continues on tape, cautionary
fallen like some precious angel, encapsulated in a tapestry of memory
they prefer to close the casket on the presence of the corpse with their honors
and when they're all finally gone, it's just another death in the family.

I think all people are different
but I've always had an overactive imagination
inherited phantom guilt that built a cult following
like a genetic indoctrination
they said you can always get the milk for free,
but I want to eat the cow
everybody is looking sort of funny
where is the sheepdog now?

I think God is the Universe, expanding and exploding in waves
but I haven't been to mass in years, and I can't understand why living people need the dead in graves
what is clear is God as a concept is incomprehensible, not a matter of morals or principle
with spears and rifles we've argued our points, armies commanded by holy knaves
mankind faces a Gordian Knot, in his mind an insoluble bind, in truth the frayed ends are loose,
triumph assured, cut it in half and what answers have you got?
A ball of rope to tug of war for, attrition fighting called a truce
he thinks he is free to chase his horizons, but he is not

I think I am tired
but I slept all through the night the other day
come-bye the clock is about face and glaring down
and it seems I am all turned around, for I feel the other way
upside is the sun, downside the moon
so I will join the fleecing in here, peacefully from the policing, soon
will they remember me, from the point of balance I ever seek to walk
tip-toeing, steadily and quietly, for all the heated bleating I talk
will they care for me, as much as they look back, aware of my poor commands
I never could take time, though I had so much, I do grip and fetch with dense matter on my hands
they will not love me, nor should they if they do,
I am penned in where I belong, with every other one of you.

Hunched over, breathing heavily, palms flat and turned outwards with fingers stretched over the kneecaps
a strike, perfectly on the very most fragile beacon of symmetry there where the face folds around the skull, perhaps
and all the steam would just come out in a pitched scream, curdling, before the fried and tired could collapse

Heave in, hitching breaths on the frosted lungs
trouble fetched far to speak in tongues,
mutism, the latter bells such painful rungs

Fetching all focus to contain, to paralyze
catch a sapling sprouting rapidly with piercing cries
desperation, drool, drenched on the wings of these insipid butterflies.

There is a better way
the jewels of wisdom locked in my chest cavity
buried in ignorance, arrogance, not meant to see the light of day
these flowers meant to grow with my decay
and open their fist over my grave
how long can I hold onto the murky morality
whose ink is poisonous, to whom I am a slave
to give up, let all hope bleed out of me
and offer no hope I can be saved

This is the quandary with redemption
you don't get to martyr yourself for one ultimate act
sacrifice at your convenience, foregoing temptation
the receipt of your past forever scrawled on your back
you can't merely decide it's all over now, at your whim
some of us have such horrible portraits waiting, our necks snap with whiplash
some have no fear of their inner nature, peering long and grim

The truth is you will forever be remembered that way by those who choose to see you as such
while you can grow and regress in the ages to come, the truth is exerting discipline amounts to much
fear excuses the rationale to cause pain, never does it explain how to apologize for its damning touch
I know that I can train and restore some of my forgone humanity, I just need to find the better man in me  
a moral beauty or amoral beastly belayed to a bucket in the inkwell of true intentions
convenience of conscience counts on the weight of the scales that measures redemption
what black spot your heart beats by, dichotomous before the open iris of forgiveness' sigh
is truly an omen, no omission from this misery, come and commiserate with me in Second Chance's Cemetery
you must want for yourself and nobody else to see the sins on your portrait clear, if this road follows hope then it cannot be led by fear
no resurrection, no intersection, letting go is a blind fall on trust
once free to be yourself and know yourself, you can become who you must.

Corporate society, the paradise no one asked for
Everyone works for us, toward us, generations of sheep
Shepherds few, gathered around our executive table
They’d love to knock down our door
But they’d have to know to look in such exquisite places, their eyes have never turned so high before!
Aha-ha! Grace those who know their stations, serve and toil dutifully
I love to see them work their life away, the loyalty to big Energy, it brightens my day beautifully
Which brings the Board to the matter of Jonathan E.
Bartholomew, Chairman of the Energy Corporation, seated in Houston
Just handed the task to inform one Rollerballer that his career is done
Announces a televised special, featuring Jonathan’s career in multivision

Did you catch Houston vs Madrid?
Who are you trying to kid?
I haven’t missed a game yet, I wouldn’t now if it was the last thing I ever did
There’s rumors in the air, rumors on the street, propaganda floats from open leaks
I hear Jonathan is going to announce his retirement on a big show in a few weeks
Now, this lavish retirement package is all set, all you’ve got to do speak it to power
Jonathan listening, a bunch of hot air in a suit talks for five minutes and says as much in an hour
The two seem to have crossed a wire,
Butting heads when he refuses to retire
Maybe you should have said why, sir
He also requested to see his ex-wife sir,
She was reappropriated by a corporate executive who wanted her,
Perhaps if this goes much farther, she can be a messenger…

Savvy of their ways, he can smell a coup for days
Knowledge, that’s real power, so it doesn’t strike him as strange
That he finds all books on corporate history have been changed
And hidden in the memory vaults of their supercomputers, at protected locales
Jonathan can’t rightly figure out why they’re so shook about the best Rollerball player in the world
Neither can an Energy executive he asks for information, just one of his old pals

Well, he’s not keen on playing by our rules in our world
We’ll go and change his!
Semi-finals, Houston vs Tokyo, no penalties, limited substitutions, multiple deaths, broken bones and contusions
Fractured skulls, comatose players, ****** bodies wrecked and left wrung out with a broken neck
We raise the stakes on the track, crush their knees, break their back
His best friend claimed in the senseless slaughter, and another irreversibly vegetative
Jonathan, Houston wins, and he manages to live
The doctors pressure him to pull life support, his disrespect, defiant and tall
His teammate is braindead, they cite the rules of the facility, no family, permit me to **** him please
There aren’t rules. There aren’t any rules at all.
Even a plant senses life. It turns towards the sun. It’s alive isn’t it?
Talking to the bedside body in a Houston hospital,
He will dream he’s an executive, hands on all the controls
Bartholomew wishes him sweet dreams, and he will wear a gray suit and make decisions
But you know what, all the executives dream about behind their desks, reversed roles
That they’re Jonathan, with muscles, bashing in faces, their enemies give in
And they skate free; all that unrestrained barbarism and he only has to score goals

Post Tokyo bloodbath, the board reconvenes
The truth behind the threat of a Rollerball champion is revealed behind the scenes
The finals pit against each other the New York and Houston teams,
More importantly, Jonathan, who defeats the purpose of the game
By standing out he establishes individuality, they shouldn’t even know his name!
The entire point is to exercise the futility of individualism and satisfy bloodlust
And with a people’s champion at the helm of the sport, the answer is clear
No penalties, no time limit, no substitutions, Jonathan will die or lose; he must!
All in favor, no accidents, no sabotage, through natural defeat he will not live?
Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative.  

Zero, the central supercomputer for the world in Geneva
A repository of all human knowledge, which seems to be a
Bit off by quite a bit of data they hate to admit and let’s face it
Is there much surprise that the corporations bank of knowledge is a disgrace with,
Seemingly senile tendencies, their computer misplaced the thirteenth century, even the technicians can’t explain, but the bulbs are lit
Uh, yeah, I don’t know sir, it just seems like it’s not up to the task, what’d you want to ask?
He’s just a man whose career is a team sport revolving around getting a ball to a hole,
And they talk all this jargon, blow smoke and say nothing, he just wants to know how the corporations determine their goals

A final offer, by form of his former wife comes to try to talk him out of the deathmatch that is to come
In her eyes she is sold out, she’s only there to do bidding, an insult to his stirred mind that only hurts
I’ve been thinking, people had a choice between having all these nice things or freedom and we chose comfort!
But comfort is freedom, it always has been, history will show that poverty is an enemy of civilization, we struggled against need
No, they appeal to us, placate us, give us cards for our complacency to own us with our greed
They want me to quit, and she shudders, urging him on
That is why I came here, you have to, and he sees through it all now
Did they tell you if you got me to do it, that you’d have to stay with me? Are you my prize to be won?
Jonathan didn’t want to hear another word,
Disgust and rage, they turned her into a reward

New York is little more than a gladiatorial battle
Death on wheels, you can hear the blades scraping
Around and around they go
Hell on wheels, fires explode from the motorcyclists
The brutality erupts in spurts of blood, all players dying
Burning and broken and splayed and destroyed and screaming and crying
And twisted and contorted and smashed and ground and ripped and torn
No semblance of mercy for a moment is shown, no humanity in the war is born
It is ******, ten players on each team, down to three,
No scoring game, New York with a biker and a skater up
And Jonathan disrupts, the bike erupts, right in front of Bartholomew so he can see
He takes the ball, heavy steel, holds it over the last man’s head, his savage ******, mercy interrupts
And he leaves him laying, thankful for his life, two men out of twenty in one game survived
As he skates, blades scraping, fires crackling, flames taller than men stand by
It is so deathly silent in the arena that you could hear a dead man sigh  
The maiming and death and deception, the ice cold, exhausted look in his eye
He raises the ball overhead, where the crowd can see it up high
And scores one point before he goes around,
Slowly, arm in tatters, blood across his face and uniform in splatters
He throws his helmet and his glove down to echo in the silence, little clatters
He comes around again, the whispers of his name start to build to a chant
The champion! He just has to win! The roof comes off, they’re roaring now!
Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!