When I was sent up
on an escalator made of neon lights
I was rapidly unaware of the plunge.
Cut from the bottom of this cup that,
sometimes,
when filled to the brim,
resembles Christmas in Tokyo.
If ever I looked up for plasma Christ
and only felt envy
I will go on to comb the earth
for all the unspun sugar that has settled
down here with me.
Explosive notions teetering on the precipice of my palate
over the edge of the antarctic,
the south pole.
Like a trampoline built over hypothermia and bad vibes
or playing chutes and ladders alone
with limited intermissions for drugs
and the dead.

Here you will find oncoming lights
roll against waves of red traffic.
The crimson tide is like a landslide
along side a river of white,
bereft of blue
on this morning commute.
Not a single star to dot the predawn gloom that blooms
into today's paper.
Children pantomiming parents
for the rest of their lives
while the adults bicker over the right blend of color.
Kids being new to the illusion have no experience
to reel in the meaning behind ideals
that have been rewritten and only go on to
learn the bloodlust.
A wet rag
wrung
with bodies
that soak through a toy balloon
full of hot air.

Step away from the world
and start anew in abstraction,
moving experiences in junction
with now.
Become an island with each metallic rotation
in memetic clockwork,
grind a mirror's glass
in it's gears for your beach
and when you find yourself accosted
by the sheer magnitude of the ocean,
look for your reflection in the sand.
O tender Earth,
I love where I stand,
a place
where all things converge
on my joy.

He is wearing gym shorts and she is a ten.
My god, a shimmering exemplar
in a new breed of **** librarians and
he is wearing gym shorts.
If you must roll off your front porch
into the world
do so with some self respect.
If you must work out
you probably aren't playing hard enough,
with a slight chance at
this being a projection
of my horrible personality
stained by the dregs in my
solitude's electric feedback.

Because poetry
is like a state of mind.
Living,
feeling
and then just letting that do the writing
even if the reality ends up bad.
I guess I really am an optimist.
I just don't see any point
in believing in anything
that doesn't serve you in a way that makes you enjoy life more.
Truths only value isn't simply that it has a metric of it being a shared reality.
There is value truth has in the fact that your beliefs are what go on to filter your lens of perception,
defines the language you use,
which become your thoughts,
which become your actions,
which stimulates your environment
and in turn moves you
to dance within a world of cause and effect.
If only people understood this
maybe they wouldn't fill themselves with the things they do
we'd be closer with karma
we'd be in control
not subject to the whims of somebody else's logic that you picked up and clung to
from a pool of information that was all that was available
but not all that there is.

It wasn’t until I had forgotten everything I had learned that I noticed the clockwork of our first world machine.
The people as the cogs spinning simply to be the dream.
Yet, not actually.
A frenzied free for all on a linear trip up the ladder with eyes on the prize and no peripheral to see what is lost to the bloodbath below.
Our modern joy paid in full with their soul.
Slave from birth to grave in clockwork that doesn't tell time.  
If only the money misers could be convinced of a two way street
to up shift the whole god ****** machine
and not just leave your brother in the gutter because you can’t believe.
Their steady faucet of the drip drop dribble trickling into your mind until it’s all you know.
Nothing outside that bubble ever gets exposed.
From generation to generation.
Grade school skill sets for a life led by expectation.
With history from the victors,
and morality from a minister.
The whole of the world,
the whole of your life,
is censored.