i travel the lexicon of bulbs
and petals and visible light
backward and forward
like a monorail of time.
the conductor is naked exposure,
an amorphous functioning of human body l
only peripherally perceptible
so that it mostly looks like a humanoid, octopus-mantis chimera.

i am the hand, prophetic and terrible.
i am the party, bacchanalic.

touching rare earth minerals
with a vibrantly common approach
i am the poverty of self and other.

take me far from linear modalities
to the temple altar
of concentric, overlapping,
principled
cause and effect.
superposition
my 80something years
so that action/reaction
have no independence.
i want to remember the future and speculate on the past.
i want the present to be the contour
that shines like antipodal moss
between their confused directions.

i am the long androidal night.

christ alive, so am i.
i am otherwise dry compost
like becoming sand far from water
just sand resonating sand.
still the signals of consciousness are there
but far from complex growth or
helpfulness.

a stain, a mold, a t-shirt in a palace.
all things ductile, all things closely resembling hyper athletic celery.

we mirror amplifiers. constant alchemical gain undeniably transmitting unstable, uncertain, postmodern programming.

the devil is real.
existing in things like air conditioning and silicon. moving subtle through maple syrup and backsplash.
the devil is mycelial and plastic;
a beach of wet, burning relief;
a root system of universal, cosmo(logical/politan), terran and mythological cinema.
the devil is a pisces that smells like lemon rinds and rusty door hinges.

we live in a bottle
where we create our own weather.

i angle sufficiently toward the mirror;
the eyes inside scanning the channels for available plasticity.
it’s sound on sound: the amorphous, prismatic urge to wall-climb shrieks like no mouth could.

tricky truth, the mind is a drag queen that uses glue to apply its make-up;
performing to infinite performance,
my dance is your applause.

prophetic mosaic
worlds apart;
fractal platforms, our worship magnetically nomadic, we flux,
spastically waving.
what do we scream for?
“GOD!”
when do we scream?
“NOW!”

like a moth to flame am i to God. i dip myself into the fire and come away as illumination; the contamination of the world ego has melted, i am spirit in form.

world-product: the pink, glacial swoon
that covers paradise like asphalt over bare earth.
gift wrapped, and out to harm,
the unchecked pleasure walks us into compulsion; and we pull out our eyes as an offering to death.
unaware of the tone that calls itself silence, we hypnotically pray that decay might grow to take our neighbors and our children.
—
is what you want what you want?
—
“ask, and you will receive.”
the way has a way to work through us all.

beauty has been created;
and there’s nothing you have to do
to help it out.

invite me into the void,
there where no cold
interrupts no warmth.
pull me into the place
where i cannot perceive,
and therefore, cannot suffer.
there is no glory, nor fear,
no ecstasy
in annihilation.
it seems as though peace cannot live where suffering is not well.
in the void,
where i will not be,
i cannot tell
if it is life or if it is death.