When water nicks its flow, I untie a

storm & head into town.

A historical overview of aimlessness

grinds against me, as two gaurd dogs

makeout.

Good on the gleam that fact-checks

feet, never saw a pair of shoes that

didn't want off.

Or a tacky perfume that smells of

wrinkly freckles, hard-to-come-by-air

unable to figure out how to insert its

chagrin.

Sometimes it helps to read aloud what

the body writes, disjointed humming

works too (a runover accordian).

A fast-approaching mass whose

disintegrative reentries start to float

peaceably.

Trying to guess the shoe size of space,

gets harder between the legs.

A market pitch of spring with no target

audience, I suppose.

A fontanelle, a division bracket connected

to other division brackets--castle

battlements.

A stimulating doodle that fills a Mead

Marble Notebook, whose cover keeps the

signal lost.

A banana in a trumpet, lensless

sunglasses in a darkroom.

Dot lightness, dot being--behind the ears.

Lo & lo beheld heads in the way of a

movie now playing in theaters

everywhere.

Where the irksomely awkward exit from

theaters, is witness to an audience's

who's who believing they're characters

from the movie.

Everyone avoiding eye contact, like some

postcoital comedown--secreting greater

star quality.

Imagine if they entered the theater that

way--our comings & goings have such

pole reversals, role reversals.

Hitchcock's bellybutton has a staring

problem, the guardian of this gate doesn't

approve of such rumination.

The invisible makes the final appearance

of what's irrevocable.

As Amen is undone by invocation--that

Amen cannot be invoked again.

How nothing moves on from nothing.

From the invisible there are untold

visibilities.

We indeed die to, to be--which's the

emptying out of Kenosis.

Just as the sky empties out, to be--Amen.

You strew signs that never met chance--

where they arose I was.

I have survived them, now they come

together before me.

You mark me all too well--but it is for me

to send word of my coming.

How it is favor comes with destruction, is

reserved for few.

Now that I have Apollo & Dionysius

wondering at their properties--the

wilderness secures this laurel wreath.

Amor fati, you left it where you knew I

would come upon it.

It was not an act of faith on your part,

what is thought to you that you should

act?

If I swear, it is to myself--that I can no

longer break what I am in you.

I felt when you knew I knew--it was all

up until then, that went away now.

Amor fati is all there is.

Every single Hemera, I roam in chapter

42, Ishmael's aghast perception of

Moby ****'s whiteness.

Having bartered with Ishmael, I threw

myself overboard--he is no longer afraid.

I, in memory of a white whale's belly--

ever & the same.

Ask for me & they will tell you, more has

me, leave it at more--mystery provides.

I've a hankering for white, they may say:

'What's wrong with that man, what's he

staring at?'

How white orients.

White is, if peace is pleased--which means

nothing can disturb it.

That can be too final for the unsettled.

I suspect there are many more Moby

***** to come, so be it.

I may find myself as Ishmael did,

watching another throw themself

overboard--that I might not be afraid,

so be it.

White is, if peace is pleased--that's what

that belly taught me.

The bellies will grow larger & larger--

in white, out of white.

Nothing but upturned eyes, given over &

glistening--never think a beast unnatural.

That's what allows for proportional

girth, when a Moby **** is spotted.

His brooding excellency stepped outside

with a ladle, just so he could declare:

'It's not ready yet!'

The finicky pottage of 718, that is.

One is tempted to take up Joe Gould's:

"The Oral History of Our Time".

It would be a lot like William Burroughs'

cut-up method, but in a colloquial sense.

Judging by the sheer volume of gossip, it

stands to reason that gossipers will

assuredly gossip about one another.

Probably to the same people they

gossiped about, I should like to think

that such plot-driven dialogue could

get lost in elevation.

Where does indeed collateral damage go?

You couldn't have known that I digress,

I digress.

I'd like to say that I'm brimming with

Amor fati.

I don't need a record to have grooves, to

appreciate the music.

This sound is as warm as it gets--meaning

closest to.

A splash of ***** on a curb, a bus stop

window clearly replaceable, four blades

of grass & a future spore.

A needle catches a groove, steaming

broth is forced to gather round.

Bark wore & tore as rings got plastered--

while Trees were indignant.

Unable to get as much distance as they

pleased, they stood for it.

Root systems grow differently than

crowns--there are also lies under their

roofs.

Shade is not their relief, but their reality.

Winter shade is closer to the matter.

Which's but one of the spiritual tastes

they leave in my mouth, especially when

hunger feeds them all.

Welcome waits on disuasion, to gain

another opening.

Lifts this minor note to prominence--we

only think we're rewriting gospel truths.

--AND YOU (the nus) fell with plangent

perversity, pointed back at lastly!

Put out light out there, as Rembrandt did

in: "The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp".

A half-buried face on an ocean floor--

predates the clumsy concealment

of horseshoe *****.

As if a canonized saint rolled out of

bed, the tide's last drop on his undecayed

tongue.

Perfectly pronounced: Tiktaalik, with the

authoritative oddity that begets name.

Not with a sonic catastrophe of bubbles,

but the clear carry of a church.

As a Tiktaalik obediently headed onshore,

his face turned to mirthful sand.

A peach swallows three dimensionality

to the pit, to peach thus.

White heat sensuously cleaved, then

bound tight.

A searching rash that overspreads

yellow-orange/orange-yellow, too slow

for pounding juice.

The indomitable ruler of unseen flesh--

that loves the teeth it never conceived of.

Resting on a lace napkin driven to

accentuation--on a cream wood kitchen

table.

Private worlds expand as we contract--

it begins by thinking of a number &

telling the mind to guess.

A highly ambitious paranoia, a do over

for every correct guess.

Four hands & a gazillion fig leaves later--

here we are, as if denying accusation.

As privacy self-edits for lay readership,

readership is at an all-time low, because

everyone is too busy self-editing.

It seems like heros/heroines barely set

foot on terra firma, before these private

worlds are unceremoniously destroyed.

These gameshow windows lit by private

residences.

I believe this to be telepathy-pains, the

paradoxic response of our collective

doubleness to thwart the internet.

What was once relegated to the realm of

private, is now public--so interiority is in

hyper drive.

Big Brothers & Sisters--toilet bowls must

remain sacrosanct!

Eventually, Idios kosmos will implode

inward--& become symbiotic, fiber optics

is just the safety net of cross-cultural

telepathy.

This doesn't mean I'm going to whip my

**** out & bang a bongo anytime soon.

I saw: evening/blue/sky trisect an

angle--as for their own.

I & the cold let them ahead,

distinguishably alone.

Then came a sussing hiss from above.

A plastic bag caught about thirty feet

high on a Pin Oak Tree.

Both at their emptiest, the wind

almost apologetic.

As they visibly grew out of distinction.

A study the size of a fallen book,

a carpenter's Sabbath.

A broken candle's muddy light--its

austere wimple.

A wooden desk dragged still, a half

still life.

Whose prehistoric scree-roar, sine

waves a crack on the wall.

A medieval ruff connected to a

hand-sharpened pencil on the floor.

Used for measuring the poem of an

unmade chair.

Caddy corner wooden shelf practicing

the faith of books.

As it takes years to read thru sawdust.

The following is an idiomatic coupling

where quotation have marks flapped

away: In the realm of possibility,

everything happens for a reason.

The above sentence seems cogent

enough, but is mutually exclusive.

Which idiom negates the other?

Is the realm of possibility predetermined,

is that the implication--or is it a chaotic

outcome?

It seems completely reinforced by:

everything happens for a reason.

Which of its own seems to imply an

ordered, higher power.

Yet--it also seems completely reinforced

by: in the realm of possibility, as if:

everything happens for a reason, is

what washes up--is the outcome of

possibility.

The former idiom implies a forgone

higher power, & a rawly chaotic outcome.

The later idiom implies a higher power,

& a purely harmonic outcome.

Taken at face value, these idioms negate

one another--yet paradoxically seem to

sync chaos & harmony.

It's almost as if they give rise to a deeper

meaning when juxtaposed.

Fictional characters never earn their

end--which's to say being killed off by

their author.

I know because I have set about to ****

off my own fictional character--who has

earned his end.

Suicide would be too literal, he's rather

literary.

I'm sorry Mr. Bloom, Shakespeare did

not invent the human being--he survived

his characters, not himself.

Phenomenal progress has been made, by

virtue of this being written.

You see--he's not transparent, nor is he an

open book, yet he tells me what I look

like.

The one that sees through him at all cost.

As if an entire jail population reached

thru bars to mirror other inmates.

Who could contend with so many

features?

Changing with every thought &

interaction--his slow death is natural, it

cannot be hastened.

It's more accurate to say that this fictional

character is dying, even when no one is

reading.

It was during a frenzy of  being written

while writing, that the two were

authentically enjoined.

To this might I add, the throes of death

are not dead.

Sunday can be as desperate as Napoleon
escaping from the island of Elba, on a
ship called: "Inconstant".
Factor in cold rain on the back of a winter coat, which can feel injurious.
As you backhandedly swipe to assess
seepage--a punitive glaze on your
hand, as if touch acts confused to ride out
reaction.
It's when your hand becomes the total
amount of precip your region received.
All of a sudden it's Sunday again--& I
observed the demographic plunge certain
major fast food chains take in sharing a
location.
No partition, just a judiciously open space
between two legendary counters.
That godawful defibrillator lighting stuck
to the ceiling.
Two distinctive sumtotal aromas that
run thru memories as firsts--somehow
refuse to coalesce, creating an aromatic
fissure.
This undoubtedly stimulates indecision
in customers, which sees a percentage
opting for both.
With the proviso that such diplomacy will
probably ruin the experience.
Or regretting the chain they purchased,
vice versa.
It's not like a food court, which's like a
stadium rock concert--where sound as
scent can get away from you.
It's an up close & personal concert.
That said, something about seeing a few
people eating alone on a Sunday had
such an anticlimactic sadness to it.
They appeared prolonged, adaptively rooted to what's designed to get them out.
They weren't going to leave until the
mindscape of a tray was worked out.

Aphrodite humors snow's request for

barefootedness--as if asking after weight.

Her heels presume no more than the

palms of her hands.

So winter takes her by the feet, & she

needn't endear herself by saying she

could only imagine.

Aphrodite goes on, in a way that uses

her name in vain.

It's all white, but her whereabouts are

whiter--she remains as what has its rest

of a field.

Even snow leverages the sky--while

Aphrodite wiggles her rosy toes on its

plinth.

She could almost topple into their

suspension--though death will come to

its senses.

Aphrodite receives snowflakes the way

a saint does devotees--their hexagonal

identities.

Exiting six exits at once, one at a time--

forming, floating, melting.

That's when snow stares at itself, creating

a glow seen galaxies away.

A knot tightened to where it cannot be

unknotted--will grow too slack to secure

a shoe.

Don't cut the shoelace, the shoe has

character now--what was an initial act

of laziness will yield more effort.

Use it to walkoff smooth exits, all the way

to subsequent entrances.

Except, turn around before entering--&

walk all the way back to unsmooth

entrances.  

It's imperative that you state: I was here.

Otherwise only dead grandmothers can

undo such knots.

Cut outs of printed numbers, surgical

finesses--scotch taped all over a wall.

The feeding schedule of the energy that

arranged them--their repetitive valuation

of motions.

A Dada poem about number theory,

Hugo Ball not by name.

A signifying wall of superficial blemishes,

dyed by the aura of its occupant, the

open-zero resilience of a wall.

A Turin-like flash treatment, that keeps

it from dilapidation.

A numbingly drafty room, a man in a

mink fur coat--smelling of frictional

accounts.

Listens to a storm in parts, between radio

stations--the relevant monster of the

twentieth century.

The Olay of a blowing curtain, thousands

of miles away--its pending atmosphere.

He looks a little like himself, a little like

the people that perceive him--& a lot like

the current atmosphere.

As he wipes the shiny germs of knife on

his fur coat--then slices into a tomato.

An infernal balance of membranous pulp,

a twin theory.

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.

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.

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.

As his lips ripple, he's not on them.

How a ghost is denied intimation--

presuming to speak for him.

Now listens intently, understanding

that silence isn't pretending not to

speak.

That sort of painful loquacity.

Then there are words that speak to

silence--which silence may or may

not speak.

Silence is a word, a word is silence--

their speaking out of turn can **** the

ghost.

The colossi of oblivion derive their

stature from what cannot be followed.

Twilight's pallored collapse gripped by a

leathery leaf, a pair of checkout keys on

a blear nightstand.

A mouth private about age gargles with

salt, then drags slippers away.

Lone headlights go off into a self-effacing

whoosh, an incomplete: bear in mind.

Then a heaviness is quietly told to be

seated, as if by a priest.

When some diabolical cleverness works

garlic cloves into a brain, as one grins

like a holiday lamb.

Evils that slur the speech of sleep, eight

hours of crime scene photos--fighting off

The Prince of Peace.

Where the colossi migrate as a state of

being, bring forth signs & break off into

smaller groups.

Until all that is left, can't be followed.

A pregnant woman smells a *** of

lavender, while running her fingers in

mince meat.

A gold crucifix's vintagey over-gleam, as

it pokes her cleavage line.

While cameras follow her sigh to a copse

outside the kitchen window--whose

distant image shrinks with signified

exhalation.

Now she's on a cable rerun no one is

watching.

Something fidgets at such odds--like that

can't be, & what's not happening will

come back with avengance.

A fictional character that memorized her

lines, & acted out of character.

As the scene called for her to act out of

character--but ended up being her true

self.

Non-acting in a scene written around her

maternity leave.

Filmed during the seventies, the set had

a lot of MASH-green, as if put together

from a present day thriftshop.

Believably lived-in, the dizzyingly

unplaceable scent-stain of home-cooked

meals, what people used to smell like.

A far more forgiving zeitgeist--whereas

even her true self seemed like subpar

acting.

This particular episode was at peak

viewership, what force drew all that

free time?

Perhaps the same force that plays its

rerun, at the same time it airs in a

parallel universe.

Coincidentally--her son is among those

not watching the rerun he bulged her

stomach in.

a pronounced profile without pensivity--

turned sideways, like that.

an installed idiot, an endless green

stretch, beyond curious but not curious.

imagine no further than the following:

his mind consists solely of a thought

that will not come to it.

only the lingering impression of having

to recall itself--seven Sundays in a week.

what would it be to look for the light on,

without knowing it?

it would feel like you're always about to

die, without knowing what death is.

what if such a one was charged enough

with impending death, to suddenly recall

more than the mind.

facing forward now, like that--as would

one about to recreate a week.

canvases recognized your coup de

pinceau, as the easel teetered.

an energy field so kinetic--its excitability

still cannot restrain the subject matter.

as you bit down ******* your pipe,

squeezing paint directly from a tube on

to the canvas, it lumped light years.

just as you slow-cooked your hand over

a flame, to know how a flame feels.

wore the blood-wheat beard of dusk, to

be fired as a preacher.

went coal-faced, cool & damp as the soul

of a potato.

learned to draw without drawing, like

answering a knock on wood.

watched the belly of a ******* swell

with stones & rubbed it as your own.

you knew not Vincent, as they didn't--

how could thirty-seven years of merged

light know?

how could the bullet in your belly know,

how could the crows over the field know?

how could the ear to the wall of the

Yellow House know--the same sound the

sunflowers you cut knew?

the ones you went into a vase with--the

housewarming that unsettled Gaughan.

the artist colony of two, its more than

complete history.

the taste of  paint & turpentine,

withdrawal from coup de pinceau.

baptized in the frigid waters of an

asylum, so your senses could deliberate

on a verdict.

unanimous as the bandage around your

head, Theo!!!

hiding the ear you handed another

*******, a ****** shell to listen to.

suddenly you came pouring in from

everywhere.

the rable of a star's emotion--the right

static for the wrong mosaic.

tuning out at full volume, a star system

from the inside out.

its reverb over a ******* Jack house--

that comes out as: "Endless Nameless".

while flashing red lights keep time.

no--this is what bad blood in a tree's gnarl

can trigger, how it starts digging.

passed on many occasions, never noticed

before (not really).

buried revolutions of seeded spells--

casted on as they cast.

a moondial with cramps: 'what's come

over you?'

is what we ask ourselves, before others

ask.

where we reply: 'i was going to ask you

the same thing.'

therefrom a planetary chain reaction

would be too predictable.

as would a demon slurping a plum pit,

pointing to the aforementioned star--

saying it feels one-fifth apprehension.

the stillest object or atmosphere may

appear to lack motion--but never

presence.

paradoxically, there's motion in the

greatest stillness--because it possesses

presence.

empty space has the most presence, it

needn't establish a dimensional

relationship to be so.

presence is therefore not dependent on

observability, neither is it independent of

it--it's simply present.

the eyes of a painting may follow you

across a room, just as eyes in-between

you & a painting may follow you across

a room.

even illusion has presence, as seeing was

believing.

remember--the dead outnumber the

living.

there really is no privacy--only the ego

may care, egolessness doesn't blush, yes

you're being watched.

the way that you'll witness a body (yours)

oversleep life--without judgment.

the bridge between the seer & the seen is

presence, which's to say seeing from &

back from to--simultaneously.

thus I present a bouquet of roses to

empty space.

spooked horses will run on two legs--

shinier than unction.

growing pale with the first idea of a

horse, which was the beast of their

apocalyptic burden.

a scream will re-enter their wide

necks, as if it never left.

they listen for it in every sound they

make, an open-ended edginess that builds

in them.

as everything is interconnected, the

apocalypse is akin to a traveling circuis.

which is to say that a place called earth,

is infinitely implicated--but by no means

exclusive to an apocalypse.

as is any other planet.

Truth remembers Truth, reveals itself to

itself.

Untruth forgets Untruth, reveals

itself to itself--as total destruction.

the idea of a horse is the same as the idea

of earth, ideas as pre-creation.

spooked...

a serpent with a head where a tail should

be--& a head where a head should be.

strikes at G*d's will, at their own will.

as if paradise never knew what hit it,

its vicious turn of color.

color that gave it away--to be

captured & sold to a reptile

enthusiast for an attractive sum.

then two frozen rats went to a

terrarium's white light again.

lowered by their proud owner,

whose hands were prey of prey.

raptly puppeting an unconscious

symbolism, that saw them eat as a

family & die shortly after.

imagining it was the other's head,

that impingement on will--

(it was really rat poison).

now nothing but black sand's

sparkling cloak boiled down to

a questionably human skull, & a

large piece of driftwood with two

heads blocking both ends.

with a slothfulness that begins to stink.

whereupon he incisively

quoted: "Hypocrite lecteur,

-mon semblabe, -mon frere!"

Thy will be done, oddly enough.

Flinstone Vitamins' **** gush of fruity

dust, had an upside-down

convalescing taste.

Very much like the pre-attendence of a

body learning to show up.

A plastic red binder with checks &

minuses.

Birth trauma fluorescent lights

reabsorbing impact against iron mesh

windows.

Jittering along patterns of early

education, somewhere to decipher the

hand let go of.

Which sometimes led to unsophisticated

cruelties on behalf of survival.

A windowless classroom can't properly

educate imagination, windows are

quiet recharges for the retainment of

information.

How the smell of cafeteria food felt far

more personal because it wasn't

homemade.

how every: classroom/gymnasium/

auditorium/cafeteria/playground could

sound like a sqwaked-apart conversation.

Its coronal call.

Prostrated by a whistle or blowhorn from

on high--just when we were trying to

******* tell one another that it's really

a Mystery School.

ice casts itself as the dissuading thorn of

paved surfaces.

what water was doing--its last pompeian

motion.

absolutely bitter definition, that frames

attention around feet.

especially after dark, its scalpy deposits

overexpose dingy refractions.

the screeching halt of crystals & their

aura of preservation.

all of which seem to make what it covers

softer.

it's an immersive study that rewards

those given to exaggerated walking.

with that said--I was prompted to

abruptly look up into a random home's

living room.

greeted by a freshly painted aquarium,

whose colors undermined breath.

I must've felt the fish staring at me--

it was two hours of frozen communion,

to that.

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.

it's this film viewer's obsession, this film

viewer's established meditation--what

was captured before his birth.

when film entered into a covenant with

consciousness--the dream became lucid.

immortality is no longer a leap of faith,

corporeality is what makes cameos--not

the viewer.

I Am acutely drawn into footage

before my birth--i look for myself & am

everywhere.

somehow more familiar than myself,

then wonder if i was out there as

someone.

swept into colored footage of Manhattan's

bustle one hundred years ago, how its

pace bursts through slowed fluxes--where

all film is posthumous.

one would have to view nothing but one

frame lapsing into another, & still miss

its breadth.

how can one view film with

consciousness & not see through it all?

motion revisited a happening,

as it happened again--for the

first time.

the sun's scythe cut into view,

black came to black rest in the

space of its blade.

as the grainy wield of film had

Venus' head.

it can only be called hell after the fact--

it's impossible to entertain otherwise.

so what the hell is hell to you then--that

takes too much energy.

art imitates nothing, you can't even

pay respects to yourself.

as inertia's demoralizing vigil goes from

you laying there--to watching yourself

lay there, when being that body is too

much.

back & forth--totally indifferent to that

back & forth ever again.

seasons are a knocked over lamp, a

collapsed shade--a meal tasted in parts.

after-weathers.

a bed & a hovering vitality,

superintelligently breaking down

Zoloft.

finding yourself in the shower & realizing

there are basic steps.

that light hurts--not as it would a

vampire, but one late to its call.

caked in something earthier than mud--

you could taste it & it's sickening.

light not the absence of, dark not the

absence of--just absence.

as if overnight you say: now I'm going to

take physical paralysis for a walk.

it was advanced age at eighteen years old.

it knows everything about you, you are

made to know how it feels.