a lady lights a cigarette
glowing red cherry
lips, puffing without
regret
a cigarette, burning
smoking, grey breathing
choking and
tap tap the
falling ashes

it is over with
a definitive flick —
a lady lights a cigarette
she can see her spirit
dancing in the smoke

spark of life
touches earth
leaves crackle and
explode into breath

in deep romance, my
lungs kiss smoke
and Spirit expands within

sinking and
soaking through skin

deep into my roots dripping
into channels of rivers flowing
freely to my brain crackling
with neurons ever grasping
dendritically to reach
nutritious extrapolations
stormy interpretations
and interpolations

crackling
branches of
white birch lightning

I'll mind ya like a monsoon you hurricane gale force spirit wind, you!
Seems like you can't see past the eye of your silly storm seems like it's easy breezy bright light night sky lemon cheesy moon.

I'll mind ya like a monsoon of rabid baboons don't steal my life wine it's not mine same light same shimmer. Everything's every color but the one I see.

Oh jeeze oh jeeze
gimme a squeeze

Clicketyclick —

sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second

Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces

rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts

the resultant
retinal scarring

Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels

triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas

every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience

Am I a server,
or am I a servant?

Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin

I'm waiting for my fix

Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —

—Clicketyclick

mindfulness
is an ever present kiss
a passionate flow of energy
between the source and me

you Tug, and Tug these Servile Strings,
you've Sewn inTo my Flesh
i've Sewn a Few on You as Well,
a Tangled Gory Mesh

Ev'ry Tug i Take will Rip
your Skin from Off your Bone, but
You've got Quite a Sim'lar Grip,
tug Rip,
cry Laugh,
and Moan

Two Puppets, Each Other's Masters
Together, Beget **Disasters

I'm trying so hard
I don't know what to do
My heart is aching
Thinking of you

A small square of paper
Sits on my tongue
With razor sharp edges
and tasting of dung

It takes me to spaces
Deep in my mind
Where there's too many places
and not enough time

I've been drowned in guilt
and I'm suspended in shame
Repeatedly killed
like in a video game

Written upon
the sharp paper square
are words for destruction
and guilt and despair

It's a trip like no other
you won't even feel high
you'll feel like a bother
and just want to cry

'...You're wrong, you're wrong,
you're wrong, you're wrong
How could you do this
How could you
do this to me...'

I'm floating in place with
no lover to face
trembling, trembling
trembling heart space

I'm spinning in circles
looking for miracles
and it's proving to be
horribly difficult

Trying to fly
with no wings to spread
I crumble and cry
a song for what's dead

the sound of alarms
ring in my head
Take me
cradle me in your arms

Drifting in place
dead in deep space
You left me here with
tears on my face

Crystalline droplets
scintillating pearls
spinning in circles,
spirals, and swirls

Why did you think
to leave me alone
at the cold ugly brink
a frost to the bone

the cold hard shoulder
feels far colder
than a lifeless boulder
I'm cold, I'm
cold

I speak with my music
and these notes are my words
My harp is my voice
and these strings are the cords

I try hard to play
But you've cut them all off
My harp is left bare
naked, unstrung

I'll move all the pedals
But unto what end?
I can't speak my heart
I can no longer pretend

It's time to stand up
and take a great bow
Walk off the stage
The end is

There’s just… all this noise… There’s all this noise and I feel like a tone floating around in some kinda modal stasis. And I just want to change the key but I can never seem to get the voice leading right.

There’s all these other intervals in here with me and we’re all packed in too tight. I’m just a chromatic scale descending into dissonance as I push past clusters of minor seconds.

I feel like I’ve gotta fight to find consonance, but I’m so **** quiet that nobody can harmonize with me. Nobody can even hear me over all this noise all this noise all this noise. This noise when so many sing without listening. This noise of a thousand unheard melodies.

This noise this noise this noise
This noise this noise this noise

Oh cute little thing
I like your contour

you look pretty funny when you're cold
you get these lovely wrinkles
especially in the middle region
nearly dendritic
more like the cracks in the earth

and your satchel breathes on its own
like a brain if it had lungs for itself
but more like an amoebic celestial body squirming around in some primordial goop
I think that's pretty cool

you're a pink and brown mushroom emerging from a forest of black wiry moss

concentrated around you and
all growing in your direction

almost lifting you up and out
and then further away fading

the way the water gets clearer
above a sand bar

and then a great convergence
a crashing of two great waves
against each other

forming a wall of spindly tendrils
before the whirlpool

It's closer than my fingertips,
Deeper than my Breath,
Shadow on the Sun, Eclipse
Light and Dark, Life and Death

You are the artist.
The artist is love.
The artist is a creator and the creator is an artist.
The art is the artist and the artist is the art.
The artist is the seed, the garden, and the gardener.
The gardener, the garden, and the seed are the artist.
The artist plants seeds of themselves,
seeds of energy, thought, and emotion,
in the garden of their life.
The soil must be hydrated and nutritious
in order for the seeds to reach their fullest glory.
Once the seeds crack and
all of their insides come out,
it will continue to grow.
The artist gives them time, space, and love.
The artist will love them
as they love themselves, and
if and when the plants have grown,
they will blossom out of their garden and into others.
The seeds are shown and they are there to be sown and
so as you sow so shall you reap.

The tone is a human,
a human is a being,
and a being,
is a tone.
The tone is a being.

When one human sings,
they create a tone.
A tone that carries
all tones within.

When two humans sing,
they create two tones.
Two tones that carry
all tones within.

They are making love,
They are making a harmony,
and the harmony
is a child.

The union of two,
the child carries all
the vibrations of one,
and all of the other.

Every harmony carries
all harmonies within.

The child is one,
The child is twice one,
The child is half of each,
and infinitely more than none.

The harmony is a child,
and the child sings.

The child is human,
and the human grows.

When a human sings
they create a tone.
This tone carries
all tones within.

The tone is a being.

The being is one,
The being is twice one,
The being is half of each,
and infinitely more than none.

Each being carries all beings within.

When the being sings,
it creates a tone,
this tone carries
all tones within.

Spotlights on us

seemingly illuminating
and otherwise blinding

can't see the audience
can't tell the difference
between time and space

different manifestations
of each other creating
infinite mandalas
poured into rivers

tones rising out
of and falling into
silence

I trip over words and pick the sounds out of the scrapes in my palms

I make motions to pick up the gravity but my actions are glitchy, disconnected

an abstracted cadence
remote inflection
radio nuance
rhythm break

modal static living in stasis

ants on a screen as grains of rice
with bubbles in a glass of beer
merging like two tones
harmonizing on a
secondary tonal plane

move me like a modulation
end me like an infinite crescendo

I am suspended
over several tones

just let it go
and I am resolved

follow where the voices lead

We're all parched.

In a circle we sip
from the watering hole,
all sides, another animal
most of them pay me no mind

but the lion stares at me
from across the rain,

his whiskers brush
the surface —
I respect you.

He laps up his drink,
and with a flick of his tail,
bids farewell to good company.

I look down into the ripples,
formed from the mouths of
many thirsty beasts,
and I look up into my weary eyes.

I am grateful to be alive.

Kissed by rippling lips,
myself I drink deeply

Because this
may be the last time
I return to quench my thirst.

I wipe the drips from my lips,
and look down where they rippled

Lion smiles up.

Batshit crazy,
Batshit soup.
Am I just lazy,
or caught in a loop?

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
****.

Love is not a competition.
Love is not a game.
You see me as a player,
and it's a downright shame.

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
I am totally lazy,
and caught in a loop-die-loop.

Glass houses and baseball games
Angels wings and tar
SEPTA lines and pine trees
Can take you pretty far

Love is not a competition
Love is not a war
and acting like a soldier
is really quite a chore!

Silly souls and wacky words
Dragonflies and tar
I want to make some art with you
but I don't know how you are

it's
Just another slide
down the razor blade
of life into a bowl
of sour owl ****

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Am I crazy,
or am I caught
in a loop?
Razor blades
Razor blades
Razor blades
****.

What I feel are rivers filled
with droplets made of life.

Life rushes
over stone and wears
away through mountains,
lakes are memories
met by rivers
states of mind
crossroads
crossrivers.

Which channel
will I flow through?
and how many times?
How deep will I let it go before
it becomes so dark
that I can't see
the bottom?

Deconstruct that which may not serve many,
and reassemble it so that it may serve more,
and you have creative destruction.

Deconstruct that which may serve many,
and reassemble it do that it may serve only a few,
and you have destructive creation.

Either way, there are resources relocated
to create or destroy something.
To deconstruct something
would be to separate it
into that which can be used to construct it...

Yet,
to construct something
is to reconstruct what which has already existed...
So is there only the illusion of creation and destruction?

Whether something is or is not,
from how we perceive it,
seems to rely on how and whether or not it is organized.

love me senseless

What if,
instead of shooting
people into space,
we grew our way there?
What if,
we built tree forts in trees,
so that we could plant trees
in the tree forts,
and when they grow,
build more forts
in those trees and
continue that process
while adding gardens
all along the way
along with more tree forts
for everyone to live in
and everything would be connected
to form a living structure
that continually grew around us
as we continually grew within it
and our atmosphere would
expand
to encompass an amount of space
that we could have never imagined,
and we would grow with the trees
stronger, sturdier, and healthier
rather than continually
contract
and thin by thickening the pollution
in the space within our atmosphere
as we die with the trees
weak, withered, and dis-eased?

There is an ocean of love
and I am completely
underwater
with you
floating
eye to eye
our spines align
two snakes, we slither
'round one another
sliding in sync
our rhythmic motions
breathing like
passionate waves of fire
bodies merged
in graceful form
flames licking every cell
of our wet skins
glistening like
the surface
of the sea

we are
submerged

In Dante's Inferno,
the unforgiven
sinful souls of lust
are blown about in
restless hurricane force winds.

It is symbolic
of their own lack of self-control
to their lustful passions in earthly life.

They are thrown around in a storm
created by their intense desire
for drugs, money,  food,
fame, power, or ***.

But is this Hell
truly in the afterlife?
Or is it a state of mind?
A state of being?

A hurricane is a rapidly rotating storm system, spiraling in on itself,
laying destruction across where its twisted arms flail.

The storm is an unbalanced, intense concentration of energy.
The eye of the storm is sin.
It is uncontrolled desire.
It's where the Self resides.

Inside the eye, though, everything seems calm.
It's cool and breezy,
the air is clear.

There is no experience
of the destruction of
what lies outside.
The surrounding wall
of the storm
is too thick.

They whose mind is plagued with such a storm is blinded.

The penitent
walks through flames
to purge themselves of
lustful thoughts and feelings.
It is symbolic of the process of God's forgiveness.

But is it after we have died?
Or is God's forgiveness
the forgiveness we receive
from those we have hurt
in our lack of self control?

To apologize and accept forgiveness can be a complicated process.
Like the flame, it's painful. But it is cleansing.

Flowing thoughts wear away
at the mountains on the horizon

Soon they sink into the sea
I can see
past them now
into the beyond

Floating, a journey
through the channels of
watercolor waterways on
a molded clay mind
Formed by the Flow
of many todays
and hopes for tomorrow

We are Mother Earth
We are the soil into which
ideas grow their roots
These dendritic webs of words reach for nutritious extrapolations,
anchored answers that ground, keeping the rain from washing them away and the wind from uprooting them from the dirt.
They sprout out of us
as we nurture them
until they blossom
into another.

I guess I'll just have to open my heart wider than my pretty little mouth.

Too bad it's been stitched shut with the linings of your actions.

Gonna have to
pop pop rip it
at the seams
it seems.

Frayed flesh
frayed flesh pray
to Ganesha Ganesh.

Bleed freely
cut it loose and
let it flow like a river.

Remover of stitches and rain fixed ditches collapsing in on themselves like a star folding itself up and hiding in a drawer.

Dust bunnies get bigger the longer they can stay unseen.

I like to collect particles of past lives and the stories of fallen strands of hair.

Along the lines of wispy waves come fine chimes of timely bells bellowing only perceived truth but truth nonetheless.

Tear it apart like you would the last letter a lover wrote you.

Let the pieces fuel a fire to keep you warm and bright.

Queer, genderqueer, non-binary, non-hetero, pan, omni, gay, pagan, quaker.
whatever.

Labels may make people more easily digestable, but I don't want to be devoured by your limited paradigm.

I don't want your gut to strip me of my intricacies and **** them out only to be flushed away.

If you are trying to engulf me and break me down you will surely *****.

I will make sure of it.

My name is Gian, and
My name is Gigi,
and I hope that even that
is hard for you to keep down.

My perception of you
is a reflection of me
of all I once knew
and all that I see

Your reception of me
is a reflection of you
of all that you see
and all you once knew

Nothing we see
Is entirely true
If both you and me
Set our mirrors askew

Eye to eye
Heart to Heart
We realize we
Are all a part

Heart to heart
Eye to eye
We realize love
Will never die

See into
each other's minds
With all our mirrors
now aligned

Through each other
We can see
We reflect forever
to infinity

I was fearful as I was
flying by the seat of my pants

so I'm sorry that I loved you by the skin of my teeth

because my smiles were as good
as blank stares to a blind horse
for which I wrote a thousand words
to paint a pretty picture

but music isn't about the notes you play
it's about the notes you don't

they speak volumes louder
than a thousand perfect paintings

but then I found it better
to remain in simple silence
to be thought of as a fool
than to speak and
remove all doubt

but I missed that special stitch in time
the one that saves another nine

and now I'm sewing patches
on ripped recycled fabrics

planting seeds in sorry gardens
that as I sow so shall I reap

but now I lay me down to sleep
and I pray the light my soul to keep

but I'll let the darkness hold me now
and guide me through the night

better to light a candle
than to curse the dusk

it is always darkest before the dawn

fingers
trace my body
tactile trails
tingle and
blossom into
electricity
fading to forever
moments dissipating into
memory

words
fall from your lips, steam
from the brim of a
boiling cauldron, billowing
spell imbued breath
breathing life into
dormant seeds of poetry
that crack, spilling their
insides, sprouting sensually
spiraling tendrils, unwinding
whispering wisps
that kiss my neck
with hot, wet leaves
fingers of a fae

Does my very existence not fit into your narrow idea of what a human being should be?

That you even hold a belief that my identity should have parameters truly disconcerts me.

First, I feel a reactionary urge to be sorry for not fitting into this tiny little cardboard box you've made for me.

This box you want to close up and push to the back of a dusty shelf.

This is because I'm used to being swept under the rug like a mess you don't want to see but you don't have the time for.

Then, I want to crush it beneath my feet and tear it apart.

But the mother within me caresses your hateful glare with a sorry stare.

Disappointed... worried, I gently pick it up.

With a sad smile, I begin to open it.

Carefully, with the calloused pads of my fingers, I untuck each fold you have created in order for this box to contain my soul.

With each motion, I make sure not to rip it at the seams. That would hurt.

It seems, though, this material has been handled unlovingly to begin with.

Mold has made its way into the corners, and the fibers are fraying at each corner, at every fold.

But I am patient. I will slowly but surely deconstruct each and every hateful box that has been stacked in the musty warehouse of your heart.

I will be here until all unsuspecting souls have escaped their prisons.

I will be here until I die.
But that's okay.

It gives me something to do with my hands.
Plus I enjoy the company of the liberated.

I need their help to clean this place up.

sloshing through
the pipes, rats riding
a winding wave notwithstanding
the pull of the riptide untied and tried
typically clear blue true without you
unrhymed but confined and unheard
born broken unnurtured and blind
further outside of my mind you lined
the blinds with ******

but I heard her outside the lines
a herder, she shined in my eyes
reflecting signs of sobbing sighs
releasing white withering pines
bare blown apart mines
bland broken times

I am a single point
I am a hole between
the threads of a quilt
these strings amongst me
are my thoughts intertwined
with the words of others wound
around countless other spaces,
little voids filled with warmth of
fuzzy yarn spun from the
tongues of old
days past
Oh, how this fabric
so filled with holes
keeps me from trembling

The florist fumbled graciously through fields of fondly flowering flora as fellow fauna curiously gallivanted by the brimble bramble berry bushes bickering snipsnap rustle rustle hustle bustle whistle tweet tweet thump thump crunch. Forest forest eyes wide as clear blue skies sigh so see as sorry fellow florist fickly ****** funny finger picking poor pretty roses. Sting trickle drip drip tickle deep red petals tumble from frowning fingertips. Oops! Silly florist why u do dis u kno bttr

I'm nibbling sunshine fantasies on psychedelic manatees
as I swim through formalities and mudpits of vanity
while temper approaches maximum capacity
I pray for no casualties

I'm dribbling periwinkle moonshine daffodils
as I crawl through sweltering deserts of dis-ease and sunchills
they're a bothersome blister singing softly to a dragon
they're a kaleidescope periscope horoscope for the dead

Jesus was a liar and Ghandi was a fuccboi.

Prophets hate themselves the most.

Try to be pure light and you will never be.

You are not a single drop of ***** in an ocean of ****.
You are an ocean of **** in a single drop. Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.

You came from sacks of fat floating around in primordial goop.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.

You are 99% vacuous void but that 1% still makes you visible to me.
Tell me that's ******* disgusting.

I used to think I was all love and light and that was it.
Everything else was shame.
Everything else was to blame.
Everything else was also me.

I am mostly nothing and mostly darkness.
Don't tell me that's not ******* beautiful.

That despite being a walking maelstrom of empty space and spasmodic dance,
I am a ******* universe expanding in all directions simultaneously.

The only reason you can see the stars in the sky is because of all the emptiness.

The only reason you can look into my eyes is because of the little bit of life that shines through my pupils.

The only reason you can hold me in your arms is because the trillions and trillions of quanta that hold me together hate themselves and love each other because they all know that they hate themselves.

It's because they're entangled in a hot mess of spaghetti, sauce, and melted cheese.
Like a functioning dysfunctional family, we are trying our best and we all hate ourselves but we are trying love each other anyway.
Because we feel it.

Vacuous void. Chaotic dance.
Mostly nothing and a little bit of everything.

toasted snippets of crispy information
lie on white plates rapidly cooling
while lips dry into deserts
of steel-toe apathy

stale bread waits, uneaten
growing fuzzy colonies of mold
that scream in delight at your
dipper-dapper disinterest

breadcrumbs blaze new trails through
forests of great-grandfather clocks,
looming ominously as they sing
tick-tock with woodpeckers where

a manic imp bakes loaves for
several forevers in an attempt
to escape its inevitable
decomposition

grasping at salvation and
fumbling for words that slip
from buttered fingertips

better luck next time

Our eyes are near
and my heart is hot
but your stare is cold —
a thousand miles away

Your words are clear
and time has stopped
there's nowhere to go
my thoughts are broken and blurred

Sweet lips, your sweet lips
Carry such a bitter sound...

I'm floating in place with
no lover to face

trembling, trembling
trembling heart space

I'm spinning in circles
looking for miracles

and it's proving to be
horribly difficult

Trying to fly
with no wings to spread

I crumble and cry
a song for what's dead

the sound of alarms
ring in my head

the sound of alarms
ring in my head...

I'm trying so hard
I don't know what to do

My heart is aching
thinking of you

A small square of paper
sits on my tongue

With razor sharp edges
and tasting of dung

It takes me to spaces
deep in my mind

Where there's too many places
and not enough time

I've been drowned in guilt
and I'm suspended in shame

Repeatedly killed
like in a video game

Written upon
the sharp paper square
are words for destruction
and guilt and despair

It's a trip like no other
you won't even feel high
you'll feel like a bother
and just want to cry

Drifting in place
dead in deep space

You left me here with
tears on my face

Crystalline droplets
scintillating pearls

spinning in circles,
spirals, and swirls

Why did you think
to leave me alone

at the cold ugly brink
a frost to the bone

the cold hard shoulder
feels far colder
than a lifeless boulder
I'm cold, I'm
cold

I speak with my music
and these notes are my words
My harp is my voice
and these strings are the cords

I try hard to play
But you've cut them all off
My harp is left bare
naked, unstrung

I'll move all the pedals
But unto what end?
I can't speak my heart
I can no longer pretend

It's time to stand up
and take a great bow
Walk off the stage
The end is —
.....

and
There is a silence
in the mist, hidden
between the little
droplets, whispering
rivers of soft words from
past lovers evaporated~
.....

together
we held hands
and in our palms
we held time

and we ran away
from the rising sun
so we could see it
rise forever

but we grew tired
and we slowed down
and the sun sped up
and time was slipping
between our fingers
dripping
from our knuckles

and together we ran
we ran away toward
the setting sun
as fast as we could
but we were too tired...

and
you showered me in
silky sheets of glowing lovelight
you embraced me with
warm rays of shimmering soulshine

you pushed and pulled my ocean's tides
in and out like a lilting melody
making love to a perfect harmony

but slowly you
drifted away
into space
to shine on new rocks
leaving me cold my
ocean waves
still...

and
For the longest time
I wanted to thank you, thief
for stealing my heart.

I thought it'd be better off
in someone else's hands anyway,
because I sure as hell
didn't take good care of it.

Can you tell me about the time
you carefully held it close?

because I'm sure
that you can remember that
because that's all you want
to remember.

It was your
little pet.

and I can't tell you
how much it meant to me
that you found it so
intriguing...

but I can't tell you
how much it hurt when
it stopped being something special
and started being
just another animal

Don't you remember
how much fun you
had with it?
Mm..

But you don't remember
watching it struggle
to breathe in
and out?

Because it seems like
despite that

all I can remember now
is your tightening grip
suffocating it
carelessly
and your acidic lip
spouting seemingly
ceaseless
abuse

Tell me about the time
you played with it
until it was broken
and it bored you

Because I can sure
remember that.
but can you?...

Oh!
Batshit crazy,
Batshit soup.
Am I just lazy,
or caught in a loop?

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup.
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
Razor blades,
****!

Love is not a competition,
Love is not a game!
You see me as a player,
and it's a downright shame!

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup!
I am totally lazy,
and caught in a loop-die-loop?!

Glass houses
Baseball games
Angels wings and tar
SEPTA lines and pine trees
Can take you pretty far

Love is not a competition,
Love is not a war!
and acting like a soldier
is really quite a chore!

Silly souls
Wacky words
Dragonflies and tar
I want to make some art with you
but I don't know how you are!

and
it's
Just another slide
down the razor blade
of life! into a bowl
of sour owl ****...

Batshit crazy,
Owl **** soup!

Am I crazy,
or am I caught
in a loop?

Razor blades
Razor blades
Razor blades
****!

and you are
ribbed, but uncaged, and
you read like a book broken,
with a cracked spine, snapped,
always opening to
the same page

the wrinkles stacked
dendritically, along the
ragged column, show
where you were split,
down the seam,
in a fervent attempt
to be figured out

your leaves are worn,
dog eared, and torn,
with words used, and
defiled

unadorned,
sickly souls

forlorn figures,
sitting silently

wishing and waiting,
no kissing or playing

it seems that you've left me,
and you're all I want to read...

blistering sunsets
burn my skin

I watch the ball of love
get further from me,
falling a w a y

It was always out of reach,
but I could feel it's warmth!
as long as it was in sight,
but, no longer

It forms rivers from dry wells.

In it's absence
it has them brimming,
now overflowing, down
channels of skinclay
wrinkles

they run deeper,
than the roots of
the tallest trees,
falling slower, than
the softest cries,
unheard

rocky river ways
froth from the mouth,
splashing and bubbling
in maniacal sadness —

silent white water rapids...

Tussled and unkempt,
shriveled livers beg for mercy!
hidden behind layers of rotting drywall

a rusty sledgehammer.

—unused

You may want to take me inside
but your mind is a million dripping daggers
perpendicular to the infinite edges
of my circular paradigms.

your cold soul wraps around me
like a chainmail suit.

I want to love it, as
it's supposed to love me, but
it's heavy and pinches every fiber
of my existence

and why should I wear it
when I want to run into love
completely naked?

My name is derived from Tyrant
I would say you should have expected it
but I am not one to take someone's heart
that is the ultimate crime.

Can't you see that you've stolen your own?
Look in the mirror! Unfurl your ****** fists.

Now my fingers are ablaze with hellfire!

and
My unseen tears
condense onto windowpanes
as they're smashed open by codependent assumptions.

Blinding
blunt force flashlights
shatter sharp shards of light
across the darkest crevices
of my soul.

Impatience
and uncertainty
leads to reactionary behavior.

Do not plant flowers
in the gardens of someone
who cannot take care of their
own plants.

Their soil is unsaturated
with nutrients.

How can you expect to enjoy the fruit of their love?

I am a withered plot.
I am the dead of winter.

No one is interested in how it has died.
They are only upset that they can no longer feed themselves.

What you see is what you get.

Synchronicities coalescing
like an orchestral crescendo
bubbling up all at once
no longer guessing
no shorter waiting
the *** is boiling
moreover
I might
   be synch
                    i                        
                      n
                  g
            ...
a pod
of killer whales
crash-splashing
quite a commotion
up, out, and back
down into the ocean
born into the storm like
a frightful forte
a front brake
endo
the

feathered
fickle angel
screams pianissimo
on tiptoes, reaching out
toward tomorrows

continuously
contagious incapacitation
tells me it straight like an arrow through time
like a taught fishing hook line
and sinker —

trying to figure out
your reason your rhyme
parsley, sage, rosemary and crime
please, let me in on your
pickled paradigm

a stormy sea, all your own,
decides for you, where
you're thrown.

The motion of your body
in the throes of getting through to me
are a dance I'd like to fold up
and put in my pocket.

The hinge at the wrist
and a nonchalant manus
looking to the west waiting
for an answer...

I find wondrous waterfalls
falling from the tips
of every finger
cascading.

There's a world within your grasp
as you transfer your temple between
the infinite bubbles of your surrounding space.

Your eyes saccade softly yet swiftly
as they envision worlds from other dimensions that I can only visit through your woven webs.

I will lay in them and swing
as a hammock in the summertime.

We will weave them together
as our phenomena emerge
into sacred universal patterns.

Our contents will thaw when
the sun starts to stay longer,
they will melt and flow
as our crystal lattice structures
ceaselessly shatter and
recrystallize into geometric flowers.

We are dancing rocks
We are dancing rocks
who have learned
how to love and —
Now we are aflame!

We are licks of carnelian
shifting to a roaring citrine.

Now we are jade flowers floating
to tropical turquoise waterways...

Kyanite kites flying into
deepening oceans of lapis lazuli.

Gold flecks
explode into purple
as our eyes flutter open into
bursts of bright white feathers.

The "United" States of America
is a new kind of concentration camp.

It is filled with humans that can no longer feel any pain.
Humans that have their freedoms taken from them,
but they enjoy it.

They are shackled to their chairs.
Their gazes are trapped in the screens of their televisions.
This is their only Window.

floating heartbrain
silly cilia stickin' out in all directions

antennae with fingertips extrapolating the surrounding situation

form dictated by the circumstance of inward pressure in correlation to outward pressure in conjunction with the trajectory and spin of itself and all others surrounding

indescribable without it's surroundings lest it be left lacking; it is the result of touch
the ethics of touch

it is the reception of signals from all directions; a hodgepodge of waveforms
a hot tangled spaghetti dinner forever forcefed to the happysad hungerstriker grateful

forever hateful
love is all we need
love is all we are
grateful
for hatred

pain gives way to bliss
sensitive cilia
feel me
feel you
feel all

I am 'cause of what I'm not
and I want love, y'know, a bit of
everything and nothing at all
and, well, I want myself back.

I want to want myself.
I want to be myself.
I want to connect.
I want to LISTEN, but
why do I have to be so ******* deaf?

I'm in the backseat now,
behind the wheel, but I can't
hear where we're going

Could you turn it down?
I don't think they heard me.
Nice clouds, pretty trees,
I like the gradient of the sky.

Up and up the elevator and
I'm so tired of your words falling
shattered on my ear drums
as they translate into
polyrhythmic fuckery
and I'm left struck dumb
and scrambling for the downbeat

buzzing lights and whirring wires
humming fans and the squealing
of brakes from 16 floors down

sirens blind my mind's eye and
down on the streets I'm losing your words
like a fat pig chasing an anarchist
black mask, no idea
out of breath

Gah! Whisper in my ear, please.
I just want to climb all the hills and
valleys of your words and swim in
every nuance of their inflection

I just want to be a gift
Present, and able to
unwrap your song

Can what is perceived or hypothesized
as conscious finality be conceived or experienced
in the present consciousness?
If not, then is conscious finality an illusion?

Can what is perceived or hypothesized
as the beginning of consciousness
be conceived or experienced in the present?
If not, is the beginning of consciousness an illusion?

Is there such a thing as conscious finality
at the cessation of perception?
Or instead of a cessation, is it a shift,
or a dissipation of consciousness
that we presently perceive
as a cessation of perception?

Is there such a thing as a beginning
at the start of perception?
Or is it a coalescence of consciousness
that we presently perceive as a beginning?

At which point,
wouldn't all beginnings and endings
be an illusion?

Or are they shifts in states of existence
outside the event horizon of our perception?

Pour a little nonsense
from the tip of this
smoking stick of sage
ash bash begash  

sprinkle some silly salt
on my slug rug
give it a tug

the cries of the
self proclaimed adults
go unsung from sharp cheddar

goat cheese sings it like a breeze
bleat bleat sheep sell tears on the cheap

catch the blue butterfly that'll
pop into dimes

locks of love explode into chimes
and it's the dialectic of paradigms

thesis
antithesis
synthesis
sin this is
I guess
lol nah

pawn rook queen this is chess
bless it and mess it up to start over again
the king is in a constant state of
falling to the board

tick tack finger
speed up and
linger there

watch the ayahuasca vine grow in spirals similar to the dancing strands of DNA

base pairs are antennas of consciousness leaking through the silk screen press
I guess

two cupcakes told me that
teamwork is pretty sweet

take a bite and tell me if you like
the frosting on the cake I bet
you won't like the dough though
if it's half baked

we held hands, we stumbled
in tattered coats, we mumbled
in our palms, we held the time
passing shattered windows
in our bob-bobbing boats and
we ran away from the rising sun
now we are running
away from the rising sun
running away from it
on creaky rotting docks
over sneaky sharp rickety rocks
(we) (wanted to see it) (rise forever)
[throbbing throats] [throbbing throats]
-we are the rising sun-
(we are the rising sun )
>lockets lickety locked< and
we grew tired >> we grew tired
(we are the change)
we had thrown away the key <<
(we are the ones)
and _ we had slowed down _
(we have been waiting for)
and ^the sun had sped up /
and that time
oh that time was slipping
between our fingertips dripping
(we are dawning)
(we are dawning)

Look:
There is a sadness in the eyes of conformists.
One can see the same in those convulsing radically in opposition.
The sadness comes from lingering at a window of perception for far too long.
Engage those with sadness in their eyes. Listen to them, and they will also listen.
Both will gaze through each other's windows. Each will have lent each other liberation from their chains of perception.

These are concepts to explore.
I used to spend my days people-watching.
I now spend my days window-watching.
Do not become chained to a state of sedentary perception.
Walk through the universe's gallery of windows. It is an infinite hallway.
Explore the galaxies of the minds of others.
Explore your own.
Every star is an eye, a window to a different reality.

Get up off the ground. Sit no longer at your dusty window!
I urge you to break the gaze from your oh so cherished glass.
Break your chains. Discard your burdens.
For this is the only way that you may truly explore!
This is the only way that you may truly become free.

I think I just needed
some Space to myself
so I snatched up the Telescope
off of the shelf

Fogbound, an Envelope
Packed with Parched Paper
Periwinkle Periscope
Crepuscular Vapor

permanent figures
a vial and dropper
kaleidoscope lens
a beaker and stopper

boom boom boom and
It's glowing technicolor grid lines
and points of pulsating rainbowdots
tracing silhouettes of wriggling bodies
intertwined with the cursive signature of
rhythm boom boom boom

and then it's cold air and
briskly-shivering-bliss-bodies
huddled in giggling masses
amassing intentions of warmth

I blink and step over a threshold
into a cute-house-cute-house but —

it looks oddly outlined,
too angular, out of place...
but it may just be that
my thoughts are curved
and blurry after a night of
bouncing around to
electronically generated sound particles
pulsating from amplifiers that engulf my body
in a bubbling-sonic-ball-pit jumping up and down
in sync to nearly-bone-shattering-bass leaving
every fiber of my being little jelly fish
going with the flow

It seems strange to be back amidst the throes
of right angles and forced aesthetics
engineered with only efficiency and
capital in mind.

A cute-boy-cute-boy with
long, dark, wavy hair offers me a
blue-pill-blue-pill 'time to chill', he says

He looks a bit like me and his hair is
highlighted with electricity
and he's me he's me I see

Baby blue pop ****
powder blue chalk.
Spit it out
halfway chewed
let it roll into my pocket
safe for later suffrin'-suckage

Now I've gone, over
and I'm out now and
there's a blackout in my
mind now black

My eyes slowly slide open
to a succubus staring into my soul
******* its contents from my pupils...
and it holds me there, smiling
until I am nothing but a
dried cantaloupe skin
sitting in the safety of my room...

I blink and I am up and moving,
leaving the room into a hallway of endless doors
leading to other endless hallways of other endless doors and
a shadowy figure, quite familiar, swiftly steps into one as I step out.
Gone. Was it really there? I step through another doorway and
in the corner of my eye I see the shadow return to the hall.
I step back and it steps forward and I step forward and it steps back.

I step-step through the threshold and
I'm back in the city.

There's six or seven others with me
and they all look quite familiar, they
all look quite a bit like me.

and we're all going
we're all going somewhere
but I can't seem to figure out what to bring

and I'm emptying my pockets but
my pockets are universes
endlessly expanding and
before I know it,
my life sits pretty in a pile before me

I leave it all and I leave...
I'm gone, over and out now
I'm on the street getting into my car
to go go go and I'm driving and
I have no idea where I'm going
or what the hell I'm doing.

I'm lost now and I wonder,
how am I going to be found?

Stop, park. There's a bus!
They've always got somewhere to go...
I climb aboard and it's completely-empty-dead-of-night.

The driver hands me a beautifully bound book of poetry and
it reads quite a bit like mine does.

Turns out we're on a trolley and
we're ascending the sides of buildings
and we're going up, up
and up into
bright stars
suspended in a
deep blue sky
fading to green...

WAIT!!!
We need to stop!
I need to get off!
I need to be somewhere else!

The trolley descends and we stop at the dead street.
Right angle buildings line the sides of the parallel lines.

I get out and the driver gets out with me and
all of a sudden we're dancing in the road!

LOOK!
The stars!
They are pulsating
in connected constellations
sparkling and

LOOK!!
LISTEN!!
You can hear them glowing
in sync with the breath of the universe!

We bask in their glory and
I recognize the driver
as a childhood friend.

SID!? Siddhartha?!

I blink and
on another corner
someway somehow
some ways away
there are six to seven people
looking quite a bit like I do and
they're standing and waiting for me.
They're all waiting for me, but
I've forgotten everything...
at the cute house.

One splits and now I'm three!
and it's me and me and Katiie
and we're going back to the
cute house cute house
but there's all these walls we gotta
crawl under and squeeze between
and walls we have to climb over and
hoops we gotta jump through!

and it's crawl under smooosh!
face-squeeze-jump-walk and I JUMP! -
to the top of a building and walk walk
and leap! down-and-walk-walk-jump
bounce-bounce up-the-wall reaching
fingertips-cling-pull up-and-over and
on-the-roof, walk-walk, jump-fall and
land-crawl under another wall and
squeeeeeeeze!

"At least all their blinds are shut," says Katiie, chuckling.

I realize I'm naked and wake up.