To make a list does not
(Zwei Füße fühlen kein Grund,)
require me to engage in
(während ich den Tier,)
an act of verbing so necessitated
(den im Tiefen warten,)
by the human mind
(weil es gibt kein Land)
because this mind is
(unter mich zu)
the mortal expression
(stehen auf.)
of our differences.
(Ich schwebe immer.)

Girls walk by
while i, inside,
desire the words, the smile,
the way
to their delicate pillow place of dreams.

cannot save us.
(inside from a negated self)
For its existence merely shows
(who claws at instruments and pages)
that our minds
(created not for me but for those who like to)
need some clever distraction,
(indulge delusions of grandeur)
a momentary Zahir,
(and succumb to)
a religious ******,
(messiahs of mass mentality.  From Deep within I beg myself to remain)
for illusions of the separation of ourselves from
(saying nothing and using time only to scream.)

this.

You walk a tightrope between
a photograph and my mind;
with careful steps i create you,
slowly, and imbue the figmented you
with your delicacy and beauty.

I know that you cannot exist in the space here;
the distance between my eyes and your portrait,
without having existed in my perceptions
at some other point before this moment,
and that right now
the real you
lives at a distance from me which mere miles cannot express.

But right now I am happy
to have you balancing on some invisible thread
which extends out to my face from your printed likeness,
for i am free to contemplate how to balance you
into the waking and sleeping moments of my life
without worrying about
where my tip-toeing steps fall
along lines of romantic delusion
and existential affection.

The insignificant ant
trapped in my jar
prompts the only
significant question:
Do my experiments maim and destruct
or aid and enable?

Eye dough knot wah aunt two Nome oar. Dew ewe here me? May key me stoop Id.

(For one)
I don't want
(to know more of)
the way seconds never cease colliding into
(something, either external or internal to)
others in a rippling shimmer of
(the consciousness, is)
moments that never possess the finality
(a divine madness of quantification.)
which we cry of to
(The Ego, who comparatively weighs)
others in re-tellings of
(self against anything not defined by)
our lives. This
(the chemical current of self-awareness,)
is a truth too often refused
(in accepting such divine madness)
from our emotional responses
(begins a spewing tornado of self deterioration)
to physical objects
(as the universe which contains self)
and our fluctuating position
(begins to fully exist.)
to them. Yet, in that
(As the universe is more fully known)
i live in a continual agony
(by constructs of the conscious self,)
which knows not the ceasing satisfaction of
(the increasingly perceived universe, which begins to outweigh)
the total fulfillment of
(constructs of self,)
a singularity of identity in space and time,
(makes existence appear impossible)
are the screams of my eternality.