and I have had glimpses
of an eager dawn
turn to the crackle of flame
and incinerate itself
in the creation
of an emotional impulse

there is a feeling
one of exclusivity
that suggests
a solitary reconnaissance
of self orientated purposes
moods reflectively animated
in individual focus
in order to infiltrate
a non sharing experience
but the feeling abruptly stops
it is a synchronized cyber wound
it is the assassination
of the distant and complex
terminals of my mind
i am irretrievably shocked
there are no survivors

a new vocabulary is driven
as the authentication of genius
one that convinces a migration
toward imagined conjugations
of constellated false inflections
mirrored words on camera
dematerializing radical mutations
interspersed with graffiti and poster sounds
words, sentences in cadence
framed vowels, recordings of consonants
a punctuated acceleration of the visualized
the scanned and the incalculable hallucinatory
holographics of a language in which
communication is not spoken directly
but becomes the audible interpretation
of a microwave

shame on me i have died a while
transmogrified with sleeping pills
killing time, as time kills, killing time
no-one would give me a gun
and back where life still bleeds
i die a little more, gone to far, to far
to  far inside my head where a medical drip
steals my time
time in a little plastic bag
shame on me i have died a while
could you get me some
some time, any time
but mostly some time

there is a long pink road

lime trees walk its path in judgement

twists of dazzling colors

zigzag through

unclaimed silences

coaxing a belief in magic

dismantling and reassembling minds

i remove one eyelid then the other

there is an immediate

diaphanous color of red

a flimsy dimness

that shows an escape route out of time

displaying the fragmented mosaic

of my disordered mind

scarlet watches me

searching my face

trying to seek out

a geography yet to be discovered

i feel an overexposed rhythm

of alpha spirals

they collide with the colors

among the lime trees

a coca-cola bottle

smashes somewhere

I hear the secret song

played in the time of the assassins

seventy-three silk worms

live on the peripheries

of my consciousness

i see them

encounter their stares

hundreds of silver eyes

their ravenous mouths

that keep me emaciated

in my own mind

long vertical ropes of thread

spiraling in molecular contortionisms

among my thoughts

there is an elasticity in their movements

their speech is laden with androgynous chic

they possess and exacting ambition

not to be kept alive by toxins

and look to their Dadaist progenitors

for encouragement in their silken tasks

seventy-three silk worms

who find affirmative properties

in the rebirth of my brain cells

Cobra writes

in indecipherable script

while consuming portions

of a botanical garden

mostly ***** poppies

sunflowers are amassed

at its oval entrance

where the peppermint people congregate

associations of place and time are lost

familiar figures vanish

replaced by holograms

of eroticized dimensions

who occupy the light

eyelids painted in rainbow colors

giving a pink glimmer of affirmation

to gay rights

while the blanks between

interpretative thoughts

are popularized by a blaze of color

where authority comes

into confrontation

with python