be still as stereo,
so you can peep the wilting filigree
of the blooming expanse
we rarely ever care to choke on.

breathe is a question
whispered by oceans and i use
it coax this **** out of
lotus seeds.

why?

have you ever noticed anything that sent you spinning
off into the empty infinity of blossoming cognizance?

pupils dilate,
sweat beads,
words collapse back into what they imply; we only know
because we watched the footage.

yes, we watched it together
and yes, it is the only father figure that pays for her own dinner these days.

i wish i was worth forgetting in the future.

i wish people didnt feel they had to be anything but here.

i wish people would teach their children about how i could market loose teeth to coastlines.

im laughing at your puzzled aura
from the next epochal shift.

(man enters and exits stage right, nervously)

it's deep is a depth but really nonsense.

fungi sunshine ride try time
grimey-find me-blinding--house couch tv--remote variable-gruesome food spoonfed by joanna newsom
singing in the key of airplane noises--make-shape-exorcise fate from cups half full of lulls and binary--hi-bye--lycanthropic soda dealer guilt tripped by the full moon--cool dude though-fun crunch curmudgeon stuffing love into guts-upchuck-punch drunk-cousin to state vector wreckage-barbecue-hard to loot-heart over headaches--family-friendly--revelry-devil setting clocks back--watch-lost and boundless-child in a wilderness--eat-eat-drink-****-****-****-pistis-missing person surgery--blind forensics-thick skin---little bitty mystical-sit down

awareness of self comes as a storm,
filling the rivers and sweeping decay to an ocean
so focused on becoming clouds
each molecule grows a mouth
and preaches only of ascension.

this is just a way of saying
I stare off into space in public.

the dry seasons are of irregular length,
prey and predators shrink into better
versions of themselves
before extinction occurs,
leaving the heat to leech the ink
from any pen within reach.

this is a way of saying i write too
many ****** poems when im depressed.

it lightens the load though,
acts as a lodestone to low points
and distracts like a thrown voice
when my mask slips.

should this be considered enlightenment?
should i be thankful?
should there be a matchstick
for any angels that want to
be numbered?

who is the authority on
matters of the immaterial?

this is a way of stating my
indifference to explanation.

so please, spare me.