Don't squander loneliness.
Can be your greatest ally:
be an alien,
be a witness,
be an outsider,
an on looker,
just don't squander your loneliness-
your greatest ally against human trappings.
In fairness, she won't keep you warm at night.
Her icy whisper can make you dance.
Which in turn will keep you warm.

ghosts I have known
lecherous dream beings
who curtsy with disdain
folly for their nourishment

a requiem to their ***
whispers of pluralism
seeking audience second advent
astrally disembodied onlooker

we shared some wine
flinched at entanglement
she asked me to stay and I did
we bumbled and the night lammed

forks in time birth specters
spooky children dally unquenched
suffering fools with great ease
because childhood is make-believe.

I, the self, saw small subsidiaries of larger rivers.
Then I joined the water and sank deep in its hug.
As if chaos wasn't chaos.
Many simple and small expressions on the cusp of a monstrous wave.

-truly random randomness is absurdity
and absurdity folly.
Until oneself awoke to fleshy folly.
In every satirical ebb and flow
it creates neither order nor disorder because both are illusory.

There is no science of history just the insanity of hounds who trough
luminescence enough
to be dangerous,
gnarling their fangs at me.

In the distance they appear as beacons
but they are only ash now.
Electronic flotation device hovers above the memory,
kinetic nostalgia.

I the oneself can never be a memory
One has to become an objective entity to become a truly subjugate oneself.

-to reject it all,

discard all the objects,

to unplug,

to disconnect.

-reconnect to awaken to divine folly:

Contracting and expanding with the confidence of understanding with wives and
government.

The self thought it was him.
The self, a pariah, forgot the boy.
He became the whole self, the oneself,
and then forgot the self
to gain the self.

The warm plaster mold cracking.
Diseases and the cures both wear masks.
Plagues and reckless panacea are memories that only sort-of work backwards.

I the self,
poor masked sort,
felt the universe's tendons,
felt its flesh.

The oneself waits awake-
amidst the tearing of realities tissue.
Ossifying skin to bone,
to stone.

My muscles remember being metals
molten and dumb
like an Olympian.

It starts with I…
And one night, under triangular canopy of Vega-Denair-Altair,
I meets you,
you call it M-13,
A foolish and globular cluster.
We muster courage saying: “There are no bodies in the sky. There are only bodies here to live and die.”
I-like-you(s) sprain to I-want-you(s)
And I-want-you(s) will, surely, hint at I-need-you(s)
This will be a lie because we are not each other’s food or drink.
Nevertheless, one day an I-need-you is translated into an I-love-you
This will not be a lie. Not because all poets are liars, but because not all liars are poets.
Not by lips or tongues or even signs-
But by virus, a susceptible core and conception
Infectious only under summer triangle,
low light pollution, and ___.
In darkness we can doubt the existence of light.

We are all wearing borrowed clothes,
in much the same way I borrow from Rumi.
I came home after staring at nape of your neck
And drove a borrowed car on the streets-
that I rent from the government.

In this borrowed life it is nice to see
that some reflection of purity scintillate
from humanities borrowed time,
from this nape of neck that I borrowed.

Muses often times don't know that they are muses,
that they are physical embodiments of seraphim.
Maybe you knew that I was writing this in my head
as I swanned that beau idéal happens on buses.

Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.

Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples

I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.

Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.

How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.

Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.

The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.



The conspiracy lies in the abyss,

A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.