moonlight, concrete, 1997
polaroid, grayscale, sandstorm
pearl, contrast, air

etc.

The digital taste far surpasses/ the human eye
blink. The snap of the shutter, muted (on mute mode)
adjust the parameters with an index finger
                                          (the delicate task)

my heart was never ashen
i keep my internal organs red

"i want-"
metal instead of flesh.
titanium bones and knee joints.
thoughts uploaded to the cloud.

in my veins,
instead of red blood cells,
make it 1s and 0s that run
so i can process, happiness, faster

i do not need
to see another ******* sunset
with my human, myopic eyes

learn your lessons from the cumaean sibyl
ask your questions wisely

chew/swallow/eat/consume
hands pressed together at the end
in gratitude (in chants&applause&tears)
Deafened by the silence

words and ideas that once maintained me
(along with my soul) rest now in my internal organs.
The gall. The stomach. The large and small intestine

You cannot force myself to cut open and reveal
but
(I would when I must and I will)

i suppose
i could sleep
a bit earlier

but is it the night
that draws words forth?

out of the darkness
meanings form
into shapes scribbled

down, the page

my clouded brain sings in morse code

lethargy covers me
like a mat

before i close my eyes
i think, am thinking
that i have done no wrong,
      i only     have
self-resentment above/ average levels


(uh)
ringing in my ears
like catching alien
radio waves from the
slimy depths of the
u ni ve r se

sleep paralyzes the limbs, a
numbness like sipping
hemlock juice, the after effect

here’s the rehearsal for the final

nighttime, daily, repertoire practice
(nothing special)

i hand in
my consciousness
they confiscate my thoughts

1.
the only bond i have
  and can trust, is emotional
tears validate
my truthfulness

as if my heart is ripped out of my chest
this is my proof
that i am one with you

but they got to me far
    far before this
and i cut my own tongue
with an updated
blade


2.
or it could be painless
only despair like a gray overcast sky
before the storm

despair is overused to the point
it loses its power
but each time we utter it
feeling its gravity
it is renewed once more

the curse of our times

is it not sad that
we mean what we say

3.
i get used to talking
in circles
in riddles
through
incorrect
     metaphors

it’s not a stylistic choice but in my blood
the fear inflated gobbles me

before the flood

that’s how power works that’s how discipline
works it gets you from within
and i can’t win

4.
if sincerity means anything,
it’s this: i do not know if i act
out of duty justice or a love for
romanticism, but i know i keep
silent out of habitual fear and that
keeps me from action in all forms
it’s silly but this is a small
personal resistance made with
words and my own fractured
thoughts

i am scared of blood and bullets

see, machines may grind your hopes and dreams
but we are all loaded guns waiting before any call sends us running
i hate the differentiation, but then for now there
is you and me, do I see a ghost or a memory
i try blinking away the mist, the myth,
but tears are falling and i can no longer see in clear,
unblurred vision. you can no longer see with your cold dead eyes and i
have a million questions i want to ask you
under candlelight