When it's
Good,

It's not.

When it's
Bad,

It's malleable.

When it's
Nothing,

It's time to get to work.

It's late
And there's no one home

It's early
And everyone's
Run off to work

It's midday
And anyone
Who's
Anyone
Wishes they were home

It's dinner time
And someone
Is taking in and putting out
Sprinkling and dipping
Adding or sliding
Grilling or spilling
As someone else is waiting
No idea
How lucky
They are

I have an energy
A low down one
A mean one
But
A congenial one
Fair
I think
I tell myself
I try to show
Others

It's late
And I'm still curious
Who this is
Pushing these keys.

Thoughts come to them
I
Is someone else
It's not me
Externally

Society shapes
The skin, the eyes, the hands, the
Splintered feet
The warped back
The crooked hips
The limp ****
The saggy *****
The misplaced ***** hair
The lumpy red dotted ***

All the horror
That I am
That I was
That I have always been

Future me.

It is late
And I'm
Turning around
Again

Either too numb to feel anymore

Or have felt so much
That, like Icarus, have burnt
Myself to my demise

This is the voice
Of voices
The one everyone
Tells you not to listen to
Not to worry about
Not to pay heed

I'll give you spilled flour
On the cutting board

I'll hand you a water cup
Overflowing to the floor

I'll give you my confusion
As two honeybees falling in love

The leaves are burning on the trees
And

It's late

But, I can't sleep.

Can you?

Is it better

To live

In the machine of nature

Or

Mans machine?

Authenticity.
Genuineness.
Truth.

Are these
Subjective strivings
Intangible feelings
The keys to one's souls release?

Or can man,
Or has man
With their creations,
Do the same?

Futile.

What is there but
Flashes of happiness
While surviving
An ever approaching

Annihilation.

Man.

Nature.

Both ways
Of
Going about it.

If the iridescent light
Of your iPhone
Brings you the same joy
The suns rays
Or the moons glow does,
What's the difference?

Who's to judge?

Who's cares?

I, being a romantic,
Side with my origins.

I like dirt.

I like rock.

I like the way
Bark is both
Brittle and hard.

Like our ribs,
It protects something
It cannot

Save.

That's why I prefer
Mother Nature's machine:

Her singular gift of life
Is really two.

Life & Death.

And she's always been on Wifi, though

Only a select few

Have the password.

Instead
Of classification
Simplify

For similarities
Uniting ego's
Destroying lines
Is the only way
We'll survive

Talking
Space Junk War Blues

I don't think
We'll ever
Make it out of this

The droning
Madness of Man's
Thought of
Selfless progression
Is too much

We can't even do
Earth
A continent
A country
A state
A county
A city
A block
A house
A room

Right.

Soon
Do we look to the stars
For distraction

Our rugs are innumerable.

But our dust,

Endless.

It's a present
And a
Curse
To be present
And absent

To this place

This life

This person

That I am.

I am a piece
Of everflowing
Never waning
Infinite
Trash

Jettisoning
Toward an overflowing
Ocean

Brimming
With scraps of trash
No better
No worse
No more
No less

Than me

I see the rips
They are
The same

I see the tears
The broken bits
The stains
The wrinkles
The disregard
The indifference
The misuse
The neglect

There is no difference

We're all headed
To the same
Dirt mound

Some marked
Others not

Some visited
Others not

In life
We are,
Whether we like it or not,

In this
Trash heap
Together

It is merely the ego
That has convinced you
That you are
Special
Different
More

You
I
We

Are

Not

A two-toned
Budding love
Where the two
Want nothing
But the best life
For the other

A fortified
Construction
In silence
We tarry ourselves
With rose petals
Kisses
One another's sweat
Rarely tears

Before as two
There was no high noon
There was no midnight
Time was a construct
Of the manipulation of the justification
Of solitude

I am I
No more
I have
Once again
Given myself over

How afraid I am
Of my willingness,
My readiness but,
How natural it all feels

How right
How true
How I feel

More like myself
Than I ever have

And if it were to end tomorrow
Be it in the sky
Or on a walk along the Seine
Or the train north to Como

Who would I be then?

Would I be stepping backward?

Of course not

Impossible

There are only
The same bad habits
The same self-fulling prophecies
The identical tour-de-force
Of self-sabotage
I've met time and time
Before and after and then before

All over again.

See the mirror
Look in thine eye
I am I
Always

Swayed only from that path
From chaos's misfortune or
It's opulence