As if patiently positioned for a

photograph at every stage of life.

Right now.

The promise of stillness.

Directly facing the greatest

composure.

Indeed.

Today I was poured upon while

speaking to someone in the same

burrough--that said it wasn't raining.

There was so much rain in their voice,

that I didn't feel the rain.

I walked with a purpose that came from

the ground offering itself twice,

never one to rush initiation.

Having heard the official stories of where

people are in their lives, I did what a

main character does when he covers the

distance narrated to the present.

I walked home.

A transplanted room, an impressionistic

mockup of one's most stayed dwellings.

The one slept in during dreamless states.

Sighs, dragged chairs--the floors eyes

pooled on.

Light's weather, now light only--dark's

weather--now dark only.

Moved by a solitary motion, unable to

curry favor with *******.

This is rest above ground.

Swept center of center, that

contemplation saw spread still.

Passed cobwebs that rave about walls--

per pearly-faced spiders,

reflecting the silk of absolved breath.

Where music bundles up to play

higher rises--lower falls.

Evolving still lifes of vases cut off by

water, won't speak flowers aloud--

holding tight to their dried reach.

A masoleum's window is a depressed

medium, that clings to rain & snow as

a window to another.

Here bones are harder on coffins,

magnetizing their display to cautionary

tales without endings.

No--a masoleum's light comes after, right

before you.

Its way of Showing you out, if you

shouldn't be.

Struck by a moment, without

etiquette or unit--a man bears

his own resemblance.

His forehead spots him.

To keep in touch.

This wasn't always the case.

Light can do without features.

This is becoming abundantly

clear.

Despite the man, even if

given to it.

Call it a great shift.

The kitchen faucet ran its length

in three parts.

A glistening silver speckled white,

followed by water--then its

detached sound.

It somehow rocked me with how

the world as we know it behaves

in eternal accordance.

Shaking it off shortly after.

I'm a waiting line--a repetitive grand

scheme.

Idle thoughts light each other's candles--

Buddhas line my intestines.

My sight offends karma, even the

darkness behind eyelids creates

pandemonium.

Holiness cuts in front & sometimes lets

me ahead.

Perspectival sin allowed to ooze from the

dots of die I suppose.

As a blind test reveals that only by

going mad, can one gain on the mind.

All I ask is that there's some semblance

of sleep when we fly from bed.

A ghost obsessively launders a sheet--

to be mindful of form, before donning it.

A timeless washing cycle.

As if a solutionless problem lie between.

It narrows down its enormity to a sheet,

because it notices without being noticed.

Despite another form contracting with

fear upon noticing it.

It knows it exists, but one-sidedness

doesn't suffice--it's more a matter of

one-sidedness than loneliness.

Its power of seeing is not met with the

power of being seen.

Disequilibrium haunts the ghost.

Though it's noticed just as much as the

sheet--if not more.

Whereas the sheetless ghost of it--is a

sheet in a more refined realm.