L-o-v-evenly,
P.o.v in a 6 inch
Seamless screen.
Identity between
Hypocrisy and reality

To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence.
Disavowed from senses
of contingent dependence.

Disallowed from connection
in simplest of form,
the necessary are
to be dead and too born.

Existing in realm
of support for all else,
with no reason at all
in helping themselves.

To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence;
contingency aiding
with iris virescent.

Unheard in annual orange glow,
A winter bird shows face
In resilient fashion-
Once the ease of life
Has taken leave in action.


Conditions unfelt and perceived,
A winter bird sees
Nature’s loaded gamble
Once more. It hopes
For unending warm embrace


And about face
A winter bird will mock.
Perpetual preparation,
With lacking exacerbation-
The Winter Bird exits its stolen vacation.

Time passes like no other passes.
Like no other classes: you cannot learn
about time, and how it moves.

You can be shown mechanics,
the seconds and minutes.
Though these illusions alleviate
us of reality-
how gradually
it treks on.

It stops and starts
and starts to stop.
We feel the slots
slipping by, flying by.

There's no way to tell,
when ours will end,
though its grasp eternal,
begins again.

I wonder,
Of my place
Of my time.

I wonder,
Of my thoughts
Of my mind.

I ponder,
Thought of thought
Breadths and depths.
How shallow, or deep
They can tend to get.

For there's no perception,
Beyond my own.
You know not all,
Nor where we home.

It stands alone,
With me out there.
I follow it's word
Without me where
It's humming and pounding
and stillness in shouting
phases the best;
Worse, deaf to the hounding.

Inside my skull
I, mistified,
through blood 'n' bone,
See no mind,
T'which I can name a name
And stake a claim to be
Anything less,
Than Mystery.

He’s not to be admired,
The artistic creative.
No hard work’s required,
It’s not quite where fate lives.

He may stand tall in his mind,
In his accomplishments wide.
But in envy we live,
To stand by his side.

He tricked it.
The system, I mean.
To stick to cliches
We’re cogs in machines.

But he’s seen the absurd.
He’s seen us.
He’s seen how we fight,
How we ****,
How we plead for our lives.
He’s seen how we wish,
With but hope at our sides.

He’s seen the machine,
And he knows it eternal,
For we won’t leave it.
We’d rather burn all

Our books and our toys
And the idea of maturity.
Before we stand alone,
And give thought some purity

No.

He’s not to be admired,
The Artistic Creative.
But despite our hard work,
He found where fate lives.

Send me the scent of a blissless silence,
No need for elegance or poise.
Send me something to clear my mind with,
Just something to break the noise.

I may not grasp the elements bountiful,
Yet I see them clearer than you.
And it can't be seen, the shade of beautiful
Beyond a palette of blue.

Though how ironic is this impairment,
That I see beyond the pale.
And oh how chronic is my despairment,
In the search of a great white whale.