mama warned me
about becoming attached to ghosts,
about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids,
   trailing their
     ruminant symbiology
      down labyrinthine tunnels
till you're left, stranded
   in a nowhere from where you started
and they fade
away
to nothing.

...

I keep loosing sight  in the lag
    that hesitant flickering pivoting between footsteps,
those   pauses  of breath  between paragraphs
of the mold in the ceilings dictated speeches,
the decade old dust encrusted spider-webs on the coffers abandoned superstructures, intricate semantic patterns, still present, present, but encapsulating nothing.

                                     (Educations warped my mind
                                       into prescriptive paradigms
                                      drugged up on science fiction
                                      alternate attritions of future presents)


–//

One day,
      the ocean promised to swallow the world,
but failed to set a date; just a vague sense of inevitability.
and everyone gets uncomfortable about the liminality,
and there's
                     a moment of rupturing
                      unveiling the blanketing
in the process of our mass comatose suicide,
                            That    no     ones sure what to do with.
And we collapse into the indecision
of what to make of this wavering present
  loosing sight
between barricades of candy bars and cheeseburger pies
while the radio static sighs
'boys only want love if it's torture'

                                                  (i find it a bit optimistic)

//–


I keep becoming waylaid in the lag
   the hesitant faltering between long warn down footprints
   travelling down some path set out by the last
   in no way definitive; but, at least, defined
   by the haphazard indentations left behind
  while sometimes there’s treasure in the depths that we climb
   it's never the kind
                                 that explains itself.

            (But still time turns and churns and burns
                while we frantically mine all the scattered urns.)


   –\

            The philosophers and neuroscientists keep working to find the foundations underlying why
               we think what we think, why we feel what we feel,
     they peel up the carpet and peer into what's beneath, but
                                     they just keep finding

                                         ripped up carpet  and musk.

                 \–


I keep searching for home in the lag,
    the tumbling bind of footfalls enshrined.
      but even if there's no way out of here,
      there's occasionally a whisper of camaraderie in the air


       (you never escape,
              no no,
            but sometimes
                the enclosure unfolds )

...

mama warned me
about becoming attached to ghosts,
about chasing the lights that flicker behind closed eyelids.
    but here in the dark,
  i'm not sure what else to follow.