There are many "me"s
and I have a feeling
this multitude of "I's
may be a surprise
to those individuals
whose eyes can find
only one thing to be.

If only I could be
one thing as well,
simple and complete,
I wouldn't have to wage this war
to see which me is me.

These "me"s duke it out
over inches of space
not worth ****
in the grand scheme of things.

I guess "I" am here
somewhere in the middle
but all my "me"s
kick up so much dust
I can't see my "I" at all.

And all the while,
my "me"s continue to club
and beat each other
and still they continue to exist
despite their resistance
to come together.

Forever warring and feuding
my "me"s
and my "I"s
see things too differently
to ever believe
they want the same prize.

I who am many
desire to be one,
but if one "me" ends up winning
that means my other "me"s are done.

Calm tendrils meander gently up towards the ceiling.
Smoky wisps turn and fade away into the heavy air.
The haze hangs there quietly, drifting around my room.

Have you ever felt,
no,
dreamt of falling down
a precipice into a pit.
That's how I'm falling,
but its no dream.

And I'm not afraid.
And don't you be afraid.
I guess that I am afraid,
but I enjoy it.
It's not enjoyment though,
but ecstasy.

I light my money on fire.
The higher the flames get
the less need there is
to be seen.

Smoke fills eyes
with warm haze,
carrying away the pains
of being awake.
Beauty lies between
the holes,
but the smoke knows
those special spots to go.

It fills space
with wispy substance,
wafting gently
through and out.

The sun outlines
the last tendrils
as they wiggle
into the final ascent.
Their ashy remnants
collapse in the breeze.

I light my money on fire.
The high is better.

Deep flames of inner ecstasy
     throbbed
and murmured
as I chewed out my own tongue.

A steady beat of gurgling blood
     pulsated in my head,
inciting such glorious vibrations
I reached
     deep in my ears
and ripped the sound away.

Silently laughing voiceless promises,
streams of brilliant crimson
     poured downwards.

The rich trails of red
    filled my eyes
with blinding euphoria and,
unable to cease,
my dripping hands
    pried out
those glittering orbs.

Warm spatters of blood
     escaped through the gaping sockets
soaking skin in waves of delight.

Too much.

Quivering with pleasure I
     threw myself
to the flames.
     Burning nerves splendidly erupt
          into smoke.

At last,
the charred traces of my smoldering flesh
     rose elegantly
to my nose.

At last,
I felt the world disintegrate
    back into black.

As the final senses burned away,
     tears trickled from vacant sockets.

          Oh god,
               this is love.

A retroactive reconstruction of
whats forgotten forms what’s real.
We rob and steal
past transgressions,
but what happens
when the  mechanisms making memories
twist elegantly toward
the ego?

The epitome of inequality.
Frosting is distributed unevenly;
caked gloriously on some,
depressingly absent on others.
Anger and frustration mount
each time a claw raises
uncoated multi-grains to my mouth.
But each time my grasp
manages to find
a sterling white mini-wheat,
I remember why
I put up with all the ****.

But the question beckons,
whether or not
the absence of imperfections
would lessen the resonance
of the frosty treats
to my oral senses.