sitting in my seat

all I do is think

saving every breath

counting every blink

thinking fashionably about death

I watch their eyes begin to wander

up and down each others’ bodies

I close

stick a hand into my thoracic cavity

and pretend it’s a clock to wind

backward through time

like they do in magazines

and in front of well lighted storefronts

and downtown mini malls across America.

any beauty column will tell you the tricks

and what you have to trade,

every weight has a balance

and every product has a price.

hands in your pockets

chin in the air

eyes on the pavement—

almost there,

almost there

button your buttons

string your shoes

"I think I can,

I think I can”

you can’t, of course,

but the emptiness of cleared out commercial blocks

and brown brick buildings

and wide streets that are empty in the night

they all call out

antagonizing you with imposing angles

narrowing density

constricting construction

walk away from it all

hide your naked figure alone and cold in the crippling dark

I have bad dandruff
And oh gosh my feet don't dance,
But Lord does my heart.
I can feel it fire-stepping away
On red-hot ants abound
In this anthill of a school.
Stacked molecule to molecule
In undeveloped hives and grottoes not financed,
Forgotten subterranean in the failing facilities
Of a school underbudget are the insects,
The maggot-child students who wriggle
And worm their way from pest to drone,
Caught up in fates not fully grown.
Queen comes down from throne up low,
Where creatures come and villains go,
Slow moving in their ridiculous pace
Of immense inhuman waste.
These people come and itch their heads
(For lice these make most perfect beds),
Made sick in clinic ***** and small
While countless others roam the halls.
I scratch my head and snow, fast, falls,
Though white are floors and bleached are walls.
Cacophonous laughter soon erupts
Volcano bursts from ant-like huts
Of dirt and cave and molecule
Which packs us austere ants in school.
To you poor slaves of Mother Queen,
Who hates to think and hates to dream,
I say, "Have faith, eyes down high,
Though Queen's abode may up low lie.
Look, I lie at the bottom of the chart,
Though way up high in place of heart.
You think these feeble strata last,
From age to age and pasts not cast?
You think when all will leave these halls
That anyone will remember the *****,
That white will be those same walls
That mockingly, to you, still call?
Youth does not ever stay,
No matter nay nor if you pray;
All kids become oppressive Queen
And forget their wild and childish dreams
Where ants go to school and snow comes from hair
And not a single ant can bear
How they recall this place they mark,
Lost in caverns winding and dark.
I may not dance but I still see
How things in future times will be."
These words exit with black contrast,
"Nothing here will last."

Destinations.

empty roads filled with

the empty gazes of

hollowed out eyes,

framed by the bags and

the black circles

burrowed deep into their skins.

"Where

are we

going?"

you ask the chillness of the night,

the stillness of the bright,

blue cars rushing past--

dazed,

you swim in this world as

a goldfish with no memory and

no vision

of what's to come.

"Where,

oh,

where

are we going?"

you ask,

feet out the window as

the lustful wind runs its chilly fingers

through your hair.

"Nowhere."

he answers,

hands gripping the steering wheel,

knowing someday you shall float off,

up,

up,

and away

to a distant land

and a distant time--

we're on a road to

nowhere.

it makes its entrance in flashy fogs,
the selfish hog of
undesired credibility,
the crushing weight of "cool."
it's so like
the fragile strength of the rain,
burning on your skin,
yearning to slip in
to something a little more casual,
a little more
******
hexual
textual
we flirt in codes
we glance in nods
we feel in rhythms
we speak in silence,
we dance together with the thrusts and sways of our bony little hips,
feeling and inspecting one another
though never looking upon either face.
it was so real yet so fake,
plastic kisses and the taste of regret,
the sterile defilement of a hotel bed,
your **** in my mouth,
your ***** on my chin,
your hand on my head and
my insecurity's egging me on,
whispering the truths that often try to hide
within the narrow little alleyways of my tiny little head,
"it is too late to save yourself,"
"you were never clean anyway,"
"heaven is a lie,"
"you have no say."
I choke on your ****,
you tell me to shut up,
you slap both my cheeks and
you tell me to grow up.
it all pushes me down so hard,
so strong,
so discouragingly,
so relentless in its intent
like the gentle power of the rain,
the bursting burning on my skin,
the heaviness of unnecessaries.
I make my exits in flashy fogs,
I am a magician,
a wizard,
a ghost and
a demon.
I am a legend,
a fable,
a story with no end,
lost to the cities full
of ancient histories and ruined worlds
and patterns of the Earth forgotten;
I am woven into the rich and tangled workings of the world forgotten.

a wind blew
from within my body
and tried to blow out
the Sun.
it huffed
and it puffed
but it could not blow
that immense house
down;
that great,
vast,
fiery idol
which stands as a monument to
the immensity of the Universe.
I have no idea why
it wanted the Sun
to go out,
I just know
it is the only way
to save myself
for we all have
our own idols within
ourselves,
bright and brilliantly
conceited flames
that just need to be
blown out
every so often.
this flame burns upon
the chest of the devil,
that evil and most vain lake of desire.
tongues of fire form
islands of
delusional self worth
convince themselves of
their large and grand importance
isolated and
surrounded by a sea
of themselves.
it burns within
the bitter bottle,
releasing its stinging vapors
upon the breaking of the seal.
these humors drift up
and into my nostrils,
coalesce in my lungs and
concentrate
into a fiery wind.
it burns within
my naive soul,
desperately needing a new-grateful
wind
to blow it
out
and quench its thirst
for immensity.
despite the irritation
I needn't have water,
wandering in the desert of myself.
to deny myself
all the comforts of a good life
and to reward myself
all the glories of an elevated mind
is what is most important;
I pinch my fingers
to blot out the Sun,
hiding that horrible light
behind my clasped together
fingers.
I replace it with a new monument,
an idol to
the things that have
shaped me,
given me this
gift of
silent reflection,
to wander in the sands
of introspective madness
until I come out
a prophet
or
a walking death.

So sweet and so unsteady,
the aroma was so heady,
our backs sticky
and
sweaty.
It's all very stupid, shallow and trite.
I don't want to write another *** poem.
I want to start a ******* fight.

Public Correspondence to A Man Called Death:

I have watched you from my window
every ****** day
for the past 3,
and I must have to ask
just why you seem to always
just be doing a tiny bit of
fiddling
beneath your long, blackened robes?
Could it be
that you watch me change,
slip from one post-industrial
piece of industrial garbage
to another,
fat bottom shaking and
curly hair quaking all about?
If so,
feel free to give me a yell,
for I am so very lonely,
Mr. Death.
So,
when is it, exactly,
that you're planning to come in
and stay with me?

I bobbed on your crests,
I floated on your glades,
You drowned in loveliness,
I loved your ugliness.
Haze covered all and made it vague,
Like some dream flitting from heart to mind.
We walked on these shores,
We kissed under these stars;
The heavens were set up to shield us,
The moon was made to be compared.
Contrast to your black night face,
Pale white satellite never compared;
It pulls at our oceans,
Tugs on our sea-strings,
Plays my harp
And teases your zither.
Your voice melts into the pitch,
Your eyes shine through the gleam;
The streetlights vainly interrupt.
It happens once every so often,
Love like this,
This sort of kiss,
This kind of embrace,
This warmth on my face.
I am drowning in our boiling oceans of love.

my grandmother washed her skin in olive oil

and ate whole cloves of garlic

and let me play with her good china

and had Rodgers and Hammerstein

fill the room with music

for play time every day

as my tiny lungs filled with her air

and my tiny heart filled with my blood

Maggots wiggle around
on the ground,
squirm,
shiver
despite the bright,
mid day rays
of amber penetrating
their coelomate bodies.
They are
Sectioned off,
Dissected according to
Volume,
Mass,
Amount,
Worth,
Originality,
Attraction.
We put them in pickling jars
High on a shelf.
Close the door,
Lock the lock
And send the key
To rot unremembered
In our stomachs.
These memories
Of maggots
Rest not in our minds
But rather
Our stomachs.
We digest them
After we ****** them,
As breakfast
Always comes before
Ravaging.
However,
the memory lives on
in nostalgic bubbles
of hydrochloric acid
and pH under 3
in walls of flesh
not quite dissolved;
each section
still tastes
the same as it felt
when it lived on the surface,
wiggling on the ground.

I grew from this earth,
green as a sprout,
to grow and grow and
touch the sky with
my puny shoulders.
I do as the Sun above
commands of me,
to keep stretching and
bending my spine,
arching my back to
its plans for
my overarching canopy.
They wish for me to
lie beneath them,
absorb their every
ray and word,
to believe fully and totally
in only them.
However,
these Suns do not shine
quite bright enough
and my nourishment
supplements itself.
I help myself to grow,
to bear the responsibility above
that I can never handle;
far too much to handle.
They don't know that
I am so tired,
so sick and weak
deep, deep, deep
down in my roots.
I haven't slept
in years,
years and years of
open eyed nights,
empty thoughts and
alternative music
to fuel and feed my
roots and trunk.
This could never suffice,
as only the Sun may
lift up the heavens,
may hold the sky aloft and
force the clouds to dance,
sending glittery raindrops
down towards me,
sweat running wet from
the pores of the wild
storm fronts.
I am too weak to handle
their high heeled kicking,
heavy foot stomping,
black cloud romping around;
I'm too far down,
down, down on the ground,
covered by dirt and
having only grown
a quarterway up.
It won't work,
honestly;
I can't be who you
wanted.
After all,
such small shoulders
could never hold
such large sky.

Stale,
Two lovers' hands do meet,
Though falter once they're there.
Chill was the air,
Though kind was their love,
Warming them down to their cores;
Their bones and twigs and stardust elements.
Soft,
Their love wilted in the nip,
Froze in the freezing gloom,
Though it was sweet as wintry rose.
Sound was their love-make,
Though two hands tried to mess,
Gripping til white went flesh.
Silky,
Two lovers' hands had met,
Tears flowing free
Onto those dreamy digits
Which had faltered in the winter air.
Love was here, love was there,
But wilts like wintry rose.

Screaming,
though all is under cover
and my whole is still all wrapped.
Can you see it, too,
the myriad mirrors casting my form
my shape across dimensions
worlds
universes of possibilities unknown and
unreachable.
Screaming,
though nothing shall be reached
and the thought is not what counts.
Can you feel it, too;
the trembling and tremors
in the fault lines of the air
causing nightmare images of
a reality that none may know.
He stares at me,
the many pronged deer
a demon in my own right
but never his own.
I mustn't look--
no, avert your gaze--
keep looking forward
keep screaming shrilly
uselessly
against the all encompassing cracks
of a reality already bent out of shape.
I am still screaming
and I say,
"--"

There's a monster
in my book bag,
stomach growling
and eyes alert.

It grows pleased
with each hour that
ticks by,
running away with
the delicious taste
of wasted time.

It feeds on my time,
consuming my entire
night, my life,
taking up all aspects of my being.

To take a pen
to its heart
would be more effective than
the sword,
but altogether
more challenging.

Its vanquish happens
in intermittent streams,
bursts of valiance and
productivity, then
the silent tapping of
impatient feet
in armor made of
vain and thoughtless dreams.

We create our monsters,
in essence,
our lives not quite
challenging enough
with a literal foe to defeat.

We shape our monsters,
give them life
and soul in structure
with new patterns to always confuse ourselves.

We are our own monsters
in the classes we cram,
the responsibilities we pile,
the layers of duties
pulverizing air to thin sheets.

It's hard to breath,
hard to think,
over the growling from
our tapping feet,
our chattery fingers,
our smacking lips,
those wandering eyes.

It's hard to plan
and hard to realize
the ultimate goal
with a wandering brain that,
fearing the eventual,
allows the book bag
to remain closed
for another hour.

So,
It looks like
I'm the one
Left,
Once again,
In the dust.
I see you,
Grains of sand and
Dirt
Whipping out from behind you,
An illusory tail
Mockingly calling
For me to catch it.
Your radar,
Your computers
And your perfect
Technology
Have mapped me out
Wondrously.
I am charted on a graph,
Lesser than
Or equal to
A blip on the radar.
I am a point,
A single starting point
From which
You may blast off,
Whether it be
Positive
Or negative.
I am the white noise
In the background,
The faint
Crashing of imaginary waves
Hiding just behind
The glass surface of
Your favorite pop song.
I am the lone bird call
In a choir of many.
I am the faint idea
Hidden at the back of your mind,
Waiting,
Watching,
Hoping to all powers
Here and below
That you will
Remember I'm there.

isolated
i am an island unto myself
freely floating in
a sea of my own self doubt.
i drift along the
water's rim,
stuck between the very high
and the impossibly deep.
tides roll in
casting about the shards of sand
like die in a lucky game.
they scatter about
my forgettable face,
isolated inputs
on an ignored mind.

I'm tired.
Some nights,
I don't even sleep, anymore.
Spending hours with eyes staring blank,
spacing out into my own empty spaces.
Sometimes, in the darkness
of the midnight,
I explore these places,
these hidden nooks and crannies
of the inner stores of my deepest selves,
spending hours upon single places;
my own empty spaces.
I've grown tired
of this waking stupor
and the life that surrounds it,
the reality that permeates everything
like the patterns in deja vu,
the trends in dreams.
I walk blindly,
aimlessly throughout
hallways boobytrapped with people,
emotions that lie in wait to jump out, to pounce.
They want to jump out and jump in
to all my nooks and crannies;
these same special places,
my empty spaces.
I don't recognize people,
anymore, don't connect, don't relate.
My brain has been fried from late nights and days
that asked too much of my fragile selves,
looked too hard for places to shove
their doubt; their special places,
my empty spaces.
I feel tired
of this mortality, this flesh
and blood and bones that only assemble
due to the random collections of particles,
the creation of bonds and repulsion,
electrical tugs with not pattern.
I shove my being into
these places,
my special places,
my vain spaces.
They don't know about their
lack of existence, so we can wait,
we can watch and resume this trend of
using and being used, of assuming
and guessing all the answers
to basic behaviors,
the layout
of people and words
meant to trap me within my
own mind, my own paranoid insomnia
and my gaps of humanity,
rushing to be filled
with imaginary
electricity.

I haven't slept
in far too long.

the bird lay helplessly on the soft cement,
its eye sockets were empty
and its feathers were torn up.
dreaming a little dream
that consisted of empty space,
the contents of its mind
both literal and figurative.
the rot had set on swiftly,
the skin was putrid smelling,
the pustules were brimming
with the **** of death made swelling.
framed on the ground by
ants crawling all around its flesh,
they slid in and out
they played within the body's ruins.
the bones were now made of rope,
the feathers petrified,
the bird lay so still,
dreaming a sleep about a sky full of nothing
speckled red and brown and green and blue and
somehow reminding me of myself
in relation to you
and you
and you
and all of you
to all of me
to every last ****** bit of you,
I give you a dead, departed, decaying corpse
who will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
I will never fly again.
just let me lay and rot upon the cement,
*I will never fly again.

21,
21,
21,
we're playing a lucky game so
pick your sides.
21,
21,
21,
you're the lucky boy today so
enjoy the ride.
But tonic is so toxic
so tasteless
so bitter-trivial-faceless
when you have to swallow your pill
everyday at 8:30 PM,
sharp.
My liver ain't in the best of shape
my body ain't in the best of weights
my soul sure is dying fast
though nothing ever lasts.
21,
21,
21 more times--
just a number,
though nothing is just a number.
My blood is running poison,
a cut a running toxic tap.
My body is a chemical,
a bitter, vindictive compound.
21,
21,
21,
it all tastes so **** bitter,
all I can taste is bitter.

Sleep has been restless,
lately.
Rest
Less.
It is neither conscious nor unconscious,
and the undreaming is an issue.
My dreams have become
dimly lit hallways
through which I walk,
unsure of myself or
of my surroundings.
It is a dream because
my body is not quite there,
it is caught between the waking
and the sleeping.
I feel the sheets of my bed
and their maternal embrace
clinging warmly to my summer shade
of dark brown and olive,
yet I see the hallway,
dimly lit.
It is a dream because
the people I knew
are other people as well,
are ideas and thoughts--
passions I hardly knew
both good and bad
that dangle on the tip of my tongue,
waiting to dance off into my body below,
down the passageway of my throat,
dark and
dimly lit.
My mind has blurred out their faces,
though I know there is only visual blackness
behind my eyelids,
has littered their words or meanings
with the trash of reality,
the inferred paranoia that
masks the truth,
dimly lit.
These ghastly haunts come
to greet me by my bed
each and every night,
blank silhouettes desperately trying
to tell me something,
something not very important,
anyway.
They mouth the words
and I go with the actions,
but my understanding is vague and doubtful
and my comprehension none.
Maybe I should care more
about what they have to say;
where is this hallway,
why my vision is blocked.
But, I'm far too tired,
in these dreams,
too exhausted and
rest
less
to care.
I am never replenished,
never renewed,
only further fatigued
by the dark and
hazy ideas the ghasts leave behind
to wander
neither conscious
nor unconscious
in the corners and passages
of my brain,
dimly lit.

and I gotta tell you all now
when your skin isn't
pure like satin
clean like silk
it ain't so easy walkin
on that street
of yours
or to go and greet
on those
feet of yours
I don't wanna go out, today, mama
I don't want to deal with the world today,
mama,
mama,
where you been,
mama,
I only feel raindrops, anger, teardrops and irony
I am made of needles and sticks and chopped up bits
I am a demon made to destroy from within
I am a half breed **** who don't have no wits--
no use, old thing,
better give it up
and let them hit
and hit
how they hit
but
it's the bit that gets
when you're layin in your bed
and your mama ain't here no more
and there ain't no baby baby baby ******
CRYBABY
CRYBABY
YOU'RE A GOD ****** SHITSMACKIN CRYBABY
YOU GET KICKED BY TWO MEN ON THE STREET
YOU THINK YOU TOO DARK TO GET BEAT?
you think you too dark to get beat?

we meet

they hit

i fall

the concrete ain't white neither

empty buses rolled on down
the busy downtown street--
faceless figures flying by
that have no time to meet.
shifting, swerving, shapeless shadows
and a muffled shuffling of feet.
I wonder if they ever wonder
about intimacy with me.
I keep on tracking every bus
that passes through the sleet,
but angry beeping, noxious fumes
and that harsh thumping beat
keeps me still and keeps me silent--
motionless in my seat.
nervous glances, twitchy fingers
and a tippy tap of feet
makes me asks myself in silence
if I should get something to eat.
jagged cracks sound through the air
as verbal tacks pin here and there
and spoken word and shouting, too
all the noises the humans like to do.
The high-pitched whining;
the deep, low rattling;
the stark, empty sighing;
the unguided battling
all of these condensed into one
with more added in for added fun.
Disconnect--
the neural wires unlock and retract
as vine-like growths along the spine
come undone across the back;
cure it with wine,
cure it with liquor,
a tonic make it quicker.
smoke a little grass and ****
chew a little on a seed,
take the stem between your lips
and snap it right in two--
Let it stand,
a monument to the experiences
wrongly cut before completion.

a crook in the neck and
a creek out back,
behind the lines of grass
and stately shapes of trees
with blades of wild oats and wheat
stretching all the way up the knee.
the pretty kind of loveliness
across the flower's face,
the dull, ignored cruelty
of symmetry and grace
all coalesce in me tonight
all pile up bit by bit inside my bones
all collect in gasps and sighs and tiny moans
all create in me a tiny pile waiting to be set alight
give me panic give me terror give me dread and fright and
might
it might come alive and on fire
burning the backs of my soles
making me restlessly wired.
plugging me in and powering me up
they wanted a show so i had to grow
they wanted to see my cute little pout
and so they sought and shook me out
from my voided, unknown cave
to have me put upon the collective
a hidden ornament on the human race--
I need to leave, to flee, to run
and never wonder why
if leaving were so important then
why didn't I simply fly?
fly?
fly?
no flight for birds of plastic wings
and a body made of artificial things:

concrete, plaster, bits of brick, glass
and the darkest, densest mass
rise into the air above
as gas clouds they float on up
into the darkening sky
covered by cowardly clouds
too afraid to fly
Disconnect--
dial tone sounds and it becomes clear
there was never anything to connect

Crossed arms
And shaking knees
Mark my mind this Valentine's day.
Throw me down,
Pushed back,
Hair mixes with salt--
Tears and ***** are flowing from my face.

I have two left feet--
I can't dance.
Someday they'll know
Everything about me, every detail.
They'll know how I'm
Smelly and old,
Fragile and useless,
How I've never been able to dance
As good as them.

Someday they'll get bored of me,
Someday they'll forget me
And I do get confused sometimes.
Yellowed up like pearly decay,
I'll be forgotten along the way
From love
To absolution--
Manumission from my blushing love.

Some people keep their love in their pockets,
Away from their mind--
Close to the groin.
Me, I keep my love somewhere safe--
Under my shirt and
Over my ribs,
Love stays warm in the place
That once housed my heart.

It pours out of me
Saline truth flushed red,
Even knowing it's not
As shiny as they would like--
Never me, never me, never me,
I'm too smelly,
Too salty,
Too useless;
I'd need a heart
To replace the hole of my love,
My blushing, rushing love.

I kept my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
I didn't need nobody else.
I never needed nobody else.
I kept my thoughts
locked by key--
yes,
yes,
I could've kept it in myself.
I always kept it in myself.
They don't ever
need to know,
there's no reason;
and maybe my
moodiness is just the
season.
But we never keep on fighting
when everything just
throws us back down--
and it gets so rough
when one has to keep biting
just to keep you around.
I'll never say these words
outside of my head,
they'll never be caught
and spilled above your bed.
I kept my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
no, no, no, no,
no, there ain't no key.
Your heart is in your head
but your head is torn apart,
and maybe sadness is
really art.
I mean you see me
struttin down that street,
smoky,
smoky,
smoky me
with a body that
looks so beat.
And maybe I'm tired
and maybe I'm trapped,
but that don't mean
you can be up in me.
You can never
be inside me,
I will always
try to hide the key.
If unlocked
I will be
a firecracker
rising up in the night,
going up,
up,
up and away,
burning brilliantly on my
chariot of smoke,
sparks,
and stars.
I'm sorry,
I have to keep my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
no--
not yet ready to fall.

'Like' this though
you don't actually
"like" what you see before your eyes,
much too clear and
much too crystal
far too sharp
far too cutting.
the scent of blood
as it scrapes into your flesh
intoxicates you in its iron enriched headiness,
'how ironic,'
truly
'how ******* ironic'
as it all goes hazy
and you numbly click
'Like' on a screen
made up of tiny little images
of tiny little people
feeling just as big of emotions as you.
'Like' this poem if you've ever been betrayed by yourself.

ya want some love but not for keeps,
ya play us well and make the sweeps,
we swept right up off the floor,
we hurried and broomed on out the door.
so take it or go,
make it real slow,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
"Daddy,
baby, my fine **** man,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
'When is he gonna trip onto that
fat ****** face?
Pale, ignorant race?'
Not even a trace,
no, no, no."
No, no, no,
not even a single ****** trace
of warmth or love or kindness
or recognition of my humanity,
the sole thing that makes me
a likewise piece of the Earth.
I'm gonna sweep away those ships,
******, doggoned grisly wrecks,
sweep 'em right over the passing waves
and right off the edge of the Earth.
Cuz I don't call NOBODY "Daddy,"
though I call one person "dad,"
"father," "pops" and it pops
I stick my needle through the
pulsing air and it pops
your **** heart pops.
and ya had your fun,
your day in the Sun,
our little run and now,
and now, and now,
oh, now, it's done,
don't make me get a gun.
I know nothin' exists in singularities,
nothin' exists on its own,
vacuums only are in theory,
we are living to our bones
and the living state rests
right into our **** bones,
however,
I can hate you for what you have done.
I can hate you and I will hate you
for every single thing that you have done,
"Daddy,"
"Mommy," too,
the systems of patronizing pater familias
and all working gears of institutional
injustice,
hurt,
pain,
wreck,
my ships may be wrecks, now, too,
but the wind and the breeze are quick to blow
and the direction of the currents are fast and strong.
So just sit there ya ****,
sit and **** into your ***** being
just sit there and ya think,
"Why ya fingerin' that doorknob
when I thought I played ya for keeps?"

the feeling runs deep;
certain, sunken sentiment
that's been felt before

I need to escape
but there is nowhere to run
so I sink in me

I try to escape
and give a hand at flying
with wings of cement

but the sky's a sea
and it doesn't have a place
for a rock like me

I sink to the depths
and let its gentle blueness
devour me fully

an average meal
for a world that couldn't find
a snug place for me

passages and pathways proliferate the minds
of young men and women wondering too big.
it is strange how there are hidden rooms within the fabric of a brain,
how the web weaves itself wondrously among all the fibers and frequencies
of thought.
though subtle might the message be,
brave in thought and clear in word,
harder it might be to see
with vision that always blurs.
it is certainly strange how
the brain builds itself over time
and becomes the face and
the object pantomimed.
act well,
act loudly,
act brilliantly brash,
even though we all will perish
and we all will turn to
ash.
it is just so very strange how
some words are far too similar
even though the meaning may not be so.
and I wonder how it is to wander
in the wonderings of a wandering mind;
we are wondering far too big
for such small,
squishy minds.
don't be frightened, but,
we might be out of time.