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Onoma Feb 11
The dead of winter walks into the

northern Atlantic, down a sandy

staircase.

So its greatest depth can finally swallow.

It's when a certain procession of waves

come in with nightfall, melding like a

loss of consciousness.

The shore's triangulated sickness witness

to two fluidities, whose synchrony

nightfall denies as it happens.

Just as certain sleepers along the

northern Atlantic have this sensation

creep over them.
Onoma Feb 10
I occur to me--like a deep sea methane
bubble.
The one getting away with the perfect
crime, the one that pops into pictures
mid-cheese.
The one that believes the ability to
perceive sixty-four squares is proof of
mastery.
The one afforded views from where the
sun will no longer be.
The one that weather goes to for advice.
The one who demands the provenance of
a day's counterfeit painting.
The one who just left Kant's: "The Critique of Pure Reason" on the set of:
"Rebel Without a Cause".
The one who thinks internal organs are a
hellish realm, conspiratorial whispers.
The one who thinks ending this poem
would be a mercy-killing, yet the imaginative commitment to a deer's
suffering lifts before a gun's fired.
As it were, who I take myself to be--is
unexpectedly confronted.
It's this secret avatar whose
overly-accurate resemblance I no longer
fall for--I have a feel for my Face.
It's gaming diversion, of inner-reflections
hid behind--which I've now turned on the
secret avatar.
Onoma Feb 9
Aphrodite sits massaging her temples,

while smelling perfume on her wrists.

Scent's vestige losing memory to

departure, till the dead pick up on it.

You'd think she's perfectly spent, but

she's water's thirst in the flow of her.

The beauty sleep of stones, adjusting

light to their changeable features,

unperturbed by their violent

connotations.

She is the one that tells desolation, she's

glad it opened up.

A lyricality that bursts wild berries in

bird beaks.

Never accusing you of seeing what you

want to see, her nakedness drives her

spiritual veilers to hysterics.

Their dearest Aphrodite will catch cold--

she just eases them off, mad to be taken

deep by being.

Panting at the ribs, you'd think creation

was being licentious.
Onoma Feb 7
Channel-surfing aisles on various floors

of a library--during a reoccurring dream.

Some sort of active pursuit, along with

knowledge.

The library was at hazard capacity,  

except for when & where I needed

undetection.

The patrons were a cricket invective on

nonlocality, both emanating from &

inhibiting me.

I'm the magnetic pursuant I'm running

from, as I'm repelled forward--everything

in the library is stuck to his/my gaze.

It was as if I commanded: "Get thee

behind me, Satan."--having that already

covered.

Its lighting was like a virus that was

about to possess its host eternally--in

concert with a rainy day.

So figuratively saturated that it was going

to dog-scrap-tear me for its own.

Now as a reoccurring daydream, I pause

to write: imperceptible change astonishes

its sensitivities.

Of all its interminable regulatory rates--

exemplified in the drainage of this black

BIC.
Onoma Feb 6
If the highest state is extinction, then that

means Gd is working toward extinction.

Even if the concept of Nirvana were only

human-centric, then why extinct human

beings--why not further our degree?

Yet for every extinction, there's a

creation, that would make G
d half dead.

Compared to infinitude that half

deadness never happened, if it weren't

for interconnectedness, omnipresence.

Gd's equally invested in apparent zeros.

Which raises absolute Cain when seen

organically--how can infinitude undergo

a growing process to begin with?

What exactly is it, that no longer serves?

Why would G
d introduce extinction to

any of creation, is it a merciful trend

toward undoing it?

What if that were Gd second guessing

it all--what if G
d is slowly undergoing a

dignified death?

Nirvana's: dead-dead.

G*d didn't die-die with Buddha.
Onoma Feb 5
For want of phylum, a beast strode out

into the coliseum of self-image.

Having slept without a countable care,

knowing peace is good meat.

Among the famous nows of non-doers,

religiously in alternate futures.

Swear that you remind them of someone,

or something they'd rather not be

reminded of.

Perhaps they've already been alive too

long, but not ahead of any timeline.

Which is always no one's concern, these

bodies that will have to go: number three

(beyond biology).

How many would opt for a slap on the

*** on their way out, to commerate their

way in?

That would be like a coroner pinning

open someone's eyes, & telling them it's

impolite to stare.

Simple truths are too much knowledge,

whereas all other sentient life dies

gracefully.

This beast under-lives & over-dies,

because simple truths are too much

knowledge.

Follow that thought wherever it goes,

with your neighbor's mind--then have a

conversation with a stray cat.
Onoma Feb 4
When apathy to apathy came black snow

on a desert, wind forbade sand to

search for it.

Birds fell down & fell down from the top

of the heap, cut to the horizon.

which fell down.

The skyline raises its hands & holds its

crotches.

a little while back, underground--a

woman became a torch that onlookers lit

their phones with.

'That's nothing--you should see this

nothing, wait...someone's calling me.'

An upstanding standoff, as subway cars

bumble motion between flickering lights.

Aligning with cars ahead--as a

momentous wave rolls throughout.

Every other face becomes another way to

look at things--as not to be overwhelmed.

Between every other face, you become

someone else's other way to look at

things.

While an old leather drum lowers heads,

whose irregular beat they impose--just to

feed off disharmony.

A surge of memes going viral, canceled

into existence--everybody will either be

too early or too late.
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