outtakes of distant sidewalks, noir

streetlights editing suggestion.

suggesting what exactly?

the average value of a snow event to a

snowflake & the forced symmetries of

a populous.

where it all evens out, as long as they

make it through.

nearer than perfection, someone wears

a purple & gold Venetian Jester Mask.

carefully observing the tracks of bicycle

tires--that resemble spines.

a boogeyman coated in moths assigns

each a person.

then boils deep blue milk--to digest

nightlights.

as he poses for sin at three a.m, in a

mansion of closets.

the life force of mustiness screaming

trespass, outed by storage's: no more

room!

our boogeyman makes himself belong.

muffles claws in shoeboxs--an

open mouthed simpleton's birthnights.

drip-dropping drool, the way a faucet

taunts a drain.

romping about as a ball of clothes, a

vintage-scented orbit highlighted by

his solar plexus.

the thrill of being discovered!

as he fantasizes of donating his brain to

science--the opened halves of his

bedtime story.

at death, life is relived--all of it.

we've died so many times that even if

each previous death were a hand clap,

that would easily constitute a lifetime.

near-death experiencers sing of a few

minutes that seem like a few hundred

years.

that's what occurs when eternal presence

toes linear time again.

it's to compute that crossover, what three

minutes of clinical death would be

relativistically quantified to.

the hard numbers would whiten hair.

imagine how many earth-years one

spends on the otherside between

incarnations.

those figures are for poets.

a wunder flute snapped

like a twig--a hole's universal

holes of air.

frenetic enough for music to

chase out sound, around  a

journeyer carried on the far

side of grazing herds.

poppy-wreathed, sending

himself away to receive what

stays.

as angels that fear to tread

follow behind.

black collars pulled upward--a cold

confessional's steady clip.

a pouncy underneath-it-all making

for dark corners.

as observant been-theres liken public

privatude.

unattached to distance, the way of the

walk becomes more cathartic.

wet nostrils raw enough to smell city

lights.

a den waits & will change with what

returns.

no doubt shreds will be made of any

blessing & curse that try to cohabitate.

I astrally projected to the flat depth of a

specified sky--emptied out with upturned

eyes.

saw lightning come down like a cracked

body.

I heard no-sky move & the earth sink.

electric ants colonized me back to my

feet, on forest ground starving for dead

company--as the living lag between:

let there be light.

there was the same crack of lightning

that passed through me.

the supine speed of itself on snow,

motionlessly making brilliances more

exceptional.

turning snow ashen by comparison.

my awestruckness took longer ways out

of me to approach it.

as if reaching down repeated the initial

impulse to touch it--which felt like

translucently warm skin fresh between

worlds.

it was to hold an imaginal hand more

real, all-knowingly possible.

all the way home--I held a blinding let go,

I couldn't let go of.

the plan was to stay up all night & look at

it with the lights out.

there's a tower for every watcher,

you're not the only one that sees--

i mean right from where you see.

forget behavior modification reduced

to paranoia-- you're observationally

angulated to a star.

you & a priest may stroll around a dim

screen in your minds, while the priest

guesses who you are.

just as a guard may be picking at his

cuticles while the necks of prisoners

needlessly tingle.

what is it that feels watched--from

genitalia to 665 secrets cutting a key for

the next & last?

the Panopticon creates a surveillance

pressure cooker--which's rudimentary

compared to the supernatural.