the docile drum
of dopamine,
pulsing,
pumping.
prompting
the corners
of the
eating,
speaking,
spitting hole
to elevate,
elongate, ebb,
and stretch apart
exposing crooked
violent jagged bones
that broke our gum.
the docile drum.

great tear colored shapes,
violent glass protrusions,
glisten in the distance,
defying wind and sky.

head lights
blink in the dead night
and race to the red light.
got no place to go
but they still go

only humans and horses
have hymens.

so curious of the ending,
almost forget to watch the movie.
anxious for that final frame.
do the credits roll?
does the whole of life
really flash bright past your eyes
or does it fade to black and never back.
could be everything or nothing,
but its eternity all the same.
is there final revelation
any ethereal epiphanies
or just jostled termination
the sound of a vacuum
being unplugged
while its still on.

so curious of the ending,
patiently waiting to witness
the collapse of the final synapse.

as life got harder
so did the drugs
held high
in reverence

and we too
hardened
toughened skin
callous indifference

it's all
so simple
when disinterest
res'mbles
the thimble

and through a canopy
tenaciously thick
no light shone on
the life below

although
the sick and sad,
they rejoiced
for in dark they
feel so at home
so alone
so alone
feeling without
the diety promised
to heal the devout

an eternal eclipse
and we thirst for the light
hunger to see
the clouds in the bright
or the stars in the night

here to starve
on this forest floor
parasites and predators
but never a friend

no friendly face
to recognize
see only gleaming eyes
repulsed by our own
and it feels so alone

how we tell
negatives repel
and there is no hope
for the hungry soul
out on its own

no climb
however far
could make it to the top
all who tried would drop
or else decide to stop

and would one break that canopy,
tenacious, thick, and tough
one finds the trick to all of it,
the sun is but a bluff

and would one break that canopy,
tencious, thick, and tough
one finds the trick to all of it,
the sun is but a bluff

white wisps
of bird
linger leisurely
before me,

until they're shot

by the fan
out the window.

there is no curtain rod
but a pillow case
thumbtacked
in place.

the window opens upwards,
held ajar by a jar
of dehydrated
algae.

we spin around the center
and the center spins back.

everything
revolving
round
everything.

another bird is born
and floats gingerly
around with
newborn
curiosity,
riding
the fan wind
round the world.

if an egg hatches
under a lampshade
a volcano is born.

A feverish scurrying startles the saplings
And upsets the patchwork of dirt stone and sand
Expanding contractions of truths’ interactions
To passing set actions
But none have been planned

Sought self solidarity through solitude
Monasticism through poeticism

lying next to
a beautiful girl
in a hammock.

the surrounding group of trees,
these towering peers,
each behave with distinct
co-dependent personality.

the one there is stretching his branches
in a single direction, like blown by a strong wind,
or frankenstein running,
away from the others-

other trees that
willingly co-mingle their branches.

still,
one tree seems
to have started out
growing towards the
others but has since
changed
direction
and
his branches bend tight
like elbows,
away from his neighbors.

maybe it was something
they said.

Suddenly a spent bloom
divebombs onto my shirt
trying to plant it's seed
in my chest,
i guess.

the girl shrieks
shifting wildly
and rocking the hammock.

It's just a flower,
i said.

She thought it
was a bee.