The last king
will not be a king.                The bit player,
Beggar nor Thief.                as the pastor,
Actor plays lawyer.            as lawyer acting.

                         The slave as the master.
                         Light refracts fantastic,
                         performs bombastic
                         preaching in the pulpit

Some 'others'
and so-and-sos
don't want to be found.
They don't want to be
solid.
They don't want to:
dematerialize or to rematerialize or to manifest.
They don't want to come into being or exist.
Some so-and-sos are vagrant and delinquent.
Truant vagaries of brush strokes
mushrooming in the tresses of dresses.
Indeed, some 'others' wish to remain anonymous.
They reckon it’s reasonable
to protect a human standard.
Their privacy a prison of unwatchfulness-
the walls closing in like they did for Hans Solo,
Chewbacca, and the princess...
like Indiana Jones or some platform pitfall romance.
The 'others' wish to remain alone.
How else would they be 'others'?
Anonymity is the preferred state of 'others'
and so-and-sos.
It is their church confessional.
Safe harbor to their ******.

Silhouettes in moonlit mazes
your tears are complex superstructures.
Superclusters wrinkle I, negative energy,
tunneling through chasms forbidden;
you and I float.

Comes  a sound, depth charged sleeper cell,
a bloop, a mystery, an unsweep,
a whistle, a Julia, a train, a slow down.
Heard by 350,000 zombies.
You and I sleep.

A child derails a train, safe to say,
that the world has its trapdoors.
Its a mystery, they say, but what do they know?
About us and our death.
You and I disorient.

Your two ******* hide a heart,
A mother board center of circulation.
Your body’s iterative delusion
Graces mine. And dissolves me.
You and I disintegrate.

We need to hack the heart,
With absurdity and farce and slipstream:
Into subspecies, we, simians,
We are grateful, gratified.
You and I evaporate

We are shadows.
You awoke me from a dream.
Observing silhouettes in the pavement,
moonlight visits us.
Black chalk outlines
fading into each other.
Penetrated by light,
separated.
Splitting our suffering in two,
never mending.
Sweet juices of forever trickling in-between,
separating our togetherness.

When I think of your sweet lips,
sleeping and dreaming of tomorrow,
I visit and try to tell you I am sorry.
Truth is not relevant to love.
Truth is obsessive,
full of agenda.
Truth is beautiful.
Beauty is false.

We shadow each other.
It is a game.
We are a puppet show,
strings and cloth,
dioramas,
perceived depth, and fake sunsets.

Everything is on Earth tonight.
Our grandioso perspective sheltered.
I take my beagle on a mock hunt.
The sky is closed for business.
Wet dog nose on the back of my knee.
There is no moon to bay at.
If I could wish one thing for you:
It would be that you lose yourself
in a sea of your self.
Children enclose themselves in crevices.
Shrink wrap the world into a small packet.
My dog is pretending to hunt.
I am pretending to encourage him.
There is no sky, just the smell of Earth.
Beagle ears scrape ground,
moist drops embed in fur.
Light is just floating particles,
water, and dust.
If you catch a rabbit
this night will end.