I tried to protect you by not remembering when the rabbis were teachers
and preachers we're on the beaches
Wishes were had in between sheets
Catfish spoken riddles but truthfully
Beautiful ripples in *******

So I was going to invite you over for txgiving but all pathology from the dsm-5 was represented.  When I say over, I mean to KFC-
cousin Larry had to work but all the coleslaw and breadcrumbs you can swallow. How bout you did you get stuffed by the poultry-geist?

Episode.
Episode.
Episode.
Channel.

?Who is the stranger in the dark?
?Sharing your bed?
?Keeping the shadows at bay?
?Holding you behind their eyes?

?Do you hallucinate them?
?Did they hallucinate you?
?Does your body hurt?
?When they are not touching you?

?Does reflection of their eyes?
?Change your mood?
?Did you already say forever?
?Forever in your minds eye?

?Did you say it out loud?
?Did you scream it?
?At the top of your lungs?
?Did they leave anyway?

?Did you smell their clothing?
?Did you hallucinate again?
?Did they find a place in your brain?
?Who left whom in the dream?

?Was there a place where you went?
?Was there a moment in time?
?Did you consider yourself a victim of crime?
?Did you play the ancient roles?

?Was there a moment you knew?
?That it was a tragedy not comedy?
?Did the two  voices argue internally?
?Was one of you right was on of you wrong?

?Did you find God together?
?Was it that kind of dance?
?Did you lead. Did you follow?
?Did you follow the cultural norms?

?Was there a hero and dragon?
?Did you slay I together?
?Did you save the princess?
?Did she know she was saved?

?Was there good intention?
?Did you give of yourself?
?Did you ever stop trying?
?Did you give up?

?Was there cake?
?Will there be cake?
?Do you want cake?
THEN DO NOT FIXATE ON ICING

One day you awaken.
Hit like a bolt of lightening or an earthquake.
The relief of you not being you.
A flash (like any other passing moment)-
it awakens.

Disassociated from your memories
you float with the bliss of knowing.
You can model everything.
You are aware in a moment of space and time,
chaos and order intermingle, and time seems to malaise.

Not in forks of circumstance
but depressed and flat.
Visibly slowed down.
You realize that they are one and the same,
that it was all a waking dream.

Only you can't figure out if you were born
or if you just woke up.
And in that case, who were you before?
You know that you were born
at such and such an address
in such and such a hospital but that was the dream,
horrible and beautiful, there is nowhere but everywhere.

Pixelated space,
Unspace,
Speed of the slow down-
Timeout.
Automatic space,
Hyppereal pace,
Nonspace,
Pixelated room,
In an 8-bit mansion
Mario and Princess
Zelda and Princess
Platform Romance
Pitfall jumping
space to space
Electromagnetic Consciousness
Conscience and Love
Compassion for the pixels

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.

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.