An acephalic poet felt the demiurge from a field of orchids and sunlips

Tapped on the shoulder by a nagging crastination -

the immediacy of putting off both before and after now

From the soil grew daymares that bloomed into ultrasight - the undervisible beauty that comes into view when feeling soft red

I was distracted, and retracted

(cw: kidnapping, ****** assault)

being paranoid is just being extra prepared for red dots, laser sights, red lights, blue lights. every

cigarette in the hands of passing strangers is an open flame and I dread like the pavement being burned and tread on, on the pavement, my feet walking

burned on the pavement, my feet tread

the cracks are inside dreading being stepped on

I test the walls by tapping on their shadows and humming over my shoulder, and without moving,

I imagine my escape at a circle of angles and determine the difficulty of each. the shadows merge and produce a man from a faceless corner

a shadow that had questions for me about a circle of angles

being extra prepared and protractor armed I scan and calculate for firearms and ****** features, hands in pockets, sharp objects, the signs of maybe a weak kneecap.

visions of epinephrine heroics, karate out of nowhere, super saiyan strength or sleeper cell ninja

the thoughts that come through tell me to stand my ground

in kind fashion, he asked for directions and left me disarmed

but once the dreams were done, the nightmare crawled out of the exhaust and the shadow grabbed from below

within seconds but feeling the eternal nature of prison cells, I was almost forced into the back seat, where I saw the scratches on the cushions as notches in hell

when the shadow stopped being a shadow I stopped being prepared

prepped and dreaded, treading in a circle of angles, desperately quiet,

the sound of rubbing nylon and heavy breathing to indicate conflict, cries for help escape after I do, looking for blue lights, sharp objects, red boxes and safety nets, threaded

light to knit out the shadows, weak in the kneecap dialing in

“Please give us your current location”

Myles Hall. Miles below, looking for my head in a circle of angles

you are not an impostor

**** those bastardly sons of ******* you are not an impostor

i know that you curl your toes under your shoes

hold your breath before you speak

check your laces twice before you step

out on tightrope 8 miles above ground

when you swallow a sentence and chase it with whiskey

trying not to choke on the sharp edges of “not enough”

your stomach bile will vault through your esophagus

in perfect lingual trapeze

stick the landing with ease and say ta da

say everything except what you need

when you rise from your knees

those itchy words will drop

into the soul of your shoes

with which you curl your toes

hold your breath

and check your laces twice before you remember

that you are not an impostor

in front of you are jesters and clowns

and a circus of whistles, bells, and frozen sounds

your shoes will grow three ******* sizes

because a) the grinch ain’t got **** on you and

b) you can do the Charlie Brown to space funk and

see(c) that you have all the room in the world to move your feet

tumble from your tight rope

let the people around you string together bridges and safety nets

go out to the carnival and win some bottle caps

take the stuffed version of you from the prize rack

and sleep well with it at night

In a field of concrete bunkers,

The left from the middle is guarded by a charred garden gnome

With a necklace of battery powered light up flamingos

And Cheerios

The hat of the gnome sits by an open hatch

The rim of which wears

Teal chains and hula fringe and

Cyborg rhino keychains

The ladder is cut from a sheet of metal

That had a ******* poster on it

And a mural of a man screaming

White and black lines

With a meeting seaweed mustache

And empty picnic baskets

Line the hallway lighted with fireflies and Christmas spirits

I drop a smoke down the hatch and wait for it to bloom

my reincarnation is that of a treasured cup

i’m almost entirely certain that my death will play a role in the cup’s creation

whether it be the clay I molded my alien hitch hiking signs into

or its maker lays back and reads in a hammock the same hours I do

just half way around the world

once my soul has leaked and drained through hell’s piping system

and what’s left escapes through condensation

the clouds will carry me to a bazaar

where the ceramic painting class is struggling to use oils

with rainy weather

in ******* up the work of most attendees

several of them will hide me in backs of cupboards

until they move or my soul dies of dust

one, if god allow two

painted mugs

are repeatedly stacked with layers of sediment

coffee, *****

tea, *****

coffee

tea with *****

a cigarette accidentally

my father should feel proud to know

his son’s vices followed him through the afterlife

that i got a nice home

that i accepted leaving parts of my soul in old cupboards

(Dad), i didn’t mean to contact the aliens so recklessly,

and i feel like I have to get off my *** if i read too much

i’m sorry i thought smoking was non-conformist

you’re right, i lied a couple of times

it cost just as much integrity as you said it would

i know i will do much better as a treasured cup

i keep my pride under house arrest

tied to an enema of ***** soda

that stops at the border of the premises

what a great laugh crawls from the nailed headboards

and sips from my resolve

i try not to show my subordinates the pressure points I worry about

but the maintenance staff knows too much

the maintenance staff keeps us up the most

they read the cracks in the plates

silverware scratched from being thrown around

every shard is collected

the professionals recommend 3 square meals a day

my pride is offered for breakfast

3 eggs, potatoes made one way, a dragonball shaped pancake

with 5 chocolate chips, and an apple skewered sideways

coffee is poured over top soul

my pride is offered for lunch

grilled cheese, something plain and boring, chips, something also plain and boring,

Gatorade, or overdone redemption

my pride is offered for dinner

grease, a good burrito with grease, an IPA,,,toast to mix things up, a joy ride with Cassidy, a waterbed of folk music, (zero ***** given), pesto penne, another IPA, a timeshare just south, and sometimes dessert

after yelling at the neighbors some

and a few reruns on adult swim

the ***** soda kicks in with a little extra

and puts us all to sleep

in 25 years

when the sentence is over

I don’t think it will find the same 3 square meals a day

We are gathered here today

In the Church of Y2K

To celebrate our word and savior,

Java C

Lift your antennas and let us pray

Our father who art in service

Hallowed be thy wave

Thy computer come, thy will be done

In life as it is Internet

Give us this day our daily update

And forgive us our bugs

As we also have forgiven our programming

And lead us not into life

But deliver us from reality

Forever the monotony, the lifeless, and the holy code

I tell you my friends, I have come to doubt the scripts

I woke up this morning to find my feed filled, but my soul hungry

Throughout the day, my devices said I was charging, but my batteries were dead

When I felt nothing left,

I remembered the simple calculator,

Its solar cells still breathing after living ****** in a drawer

The revelation I bring forth to you today is this

Drown your devices

Soak your SIM cards

**** the frequencies you are attuned to

And abandon your provider

There was life that preceded us

An evolutionary process the corrupt have cursed, wiped, and reduced to bits

In those fragments of simplicity left in you

You will find an outlet of energy of nuclear proportions