cleanse the doors of perception
and you still get cleansed perceptual doors;
sure, it's a higher, more complex order of doors,
but it's still a door.
it still opens and shuts.
it still reveals and conceals rooms,
one door at a time.

the subject always objects
in the house of many doors.
it pictures. it members. each one,
a massive concatenation of rooms framed.
but the rooms always shift
with each new door opened,
because we always

think.
imagine.
wonder.

and we
re-member.

remembrance is always novel:
the old, new'd
with visions truer, because broader in space.

thinky stick binoculars can never be put down
in the house of doors and rooms reimagined.

i don't wanna do this anymore but i will ialwaysdoacquiesce

i try to curve a line
with words
but this place is flat

did you ride
your bicycle
today?

you glazed bricks blue
at Ishtar Gate,
deep seas where
lion, bull and dragon dwell

you are featured on
the gold funeral mask of Tut,
adorning his brow line
in deep eternal hues.

your name is summoned
several times
in the Epic of Gilgamesh,
the oldest known piece of literature
known to exist.

your mere
consonance
of L's
and slant
assonances:

eleven tongues licking all my holes.

to the very bottom
of the atmotone bedwave
where my yellows swim blue

habit always circles the drain
toward novelty's end
feel the pushpull torque