Where is the seat of psychic pain?
Are MRI's made to trace the vein
To neuron neighborhoods
Sealed, yet synapse connected,
One to another
By chain link fences?

Walkin' in circles,
Thoughts follow,
All's a muddle.
Vortexin' eWaves of self splunder
Leaving nothing intricate,
But fauxtons.

if you like this poem
send a dollar
to my Paypal account.

Paypal is a trademark
owned by Paypal.
A cash cow,
mooing dung piles of lazy loot
tucked away in thousands of accounts
like stormed tossed buccaneer's ate.

thus far
i'm an energy star poet,
as green as green can be,
where nary a word of mine
has befelled a single tree.

when you die
all the importantness
that inflates your skin
hisses out,
a virtual pressure cooker
sitting on a warm burner
turned to off.

I soar in your wake,
just below your cruising attitude,
a glowworm alight in your reflection.
Dude,
I'm looking at you!

would i be the first
if i were to incorporeally script
an antithology
starting with two white on white end papers
and filling their in between
with N-minus-one
intrinsic diswholeness (imagine symbol for shrugged shoulders here)