The wheat of Elysia is let go's sway--that

drops Aphrodite to her knees.

Where she watches sight spread around

her head, winnowing golden dancers.

No more that they may--they are, about

the girl that's never to go.

Yet goes, in search of the longer way that

brings her out.

Who is heard coming as silence to

silence, which turns over the horizon.

Aphrodite's heart feels as if it's doing a

headstand, with upside-down birds

emptying the contents of the world.

Where she lie, other than the world--

as the perceptor of real space.

She has a craving that expecting

mothers couldn't eureka-mouth together.

Perhaps her most significant

beautification, beginning to see what's

seen in her.

As Aphrodite says to herself: die a

moment, spring forward--after flowers.

I'm still needed, I must go back--how

many times have I done this?

There's a planet that's been method

acting in my head, passionate as a

coloring child.

Drifting like a sign you can't dispell with

the logic you were looking for it.

It seeks to embody the gross

underestimation of space at large,

without grand aspirations.

As if to ask: is a planet larger than the

mind--the planet says: don't answer that,

I'm inexorable.

As the planet balances on a tenuous

black square--for my sake, on an axial

tilt lending itself to delivery.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Gd 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 Gd 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 Gd is slowly undergoing a

dignified death?

Nirvana's: dead-dead.

G*d didn't die-die with Buddha.