Be lucky that it's clear
that I'm here
and not in your ear
making rhymes about
******* and beer.
I'm here
knotting so many fallacies that
I could be queer
but it's clear,
I'm here.

Still here, that is.
Or... maybe I should be lucky.
Let's both not take here for granted.
Even when it aches,
like reality has some sickness
that we can neither cure nor talk down,
we must remember
that we can no more not be here
than we can be in our dreams...
If you can't understand those words
then you're struggling to be here
shifting your eyes like flickering flashlights
they **** away and bang bang bang against the hand of boredom
because the brain is running dry,
I understand.

Be here with me, dear literary vagabond,
peruse my nonsense. Take a bite.
Chew upon the syllables and forgettables,
like soggy vegetables.
Let it all melt in your mind,
like Belgian chocolate (forget the vegetables).
There's nothing here except derangement,
but
have you won the battle?
Are you still here?

The sound of turbulent water
running through the pipes.
The roar of trembling engines,
jostling and towing their vehicles
down the street.
The tap dance of computer keys
mirroring the senility of my mind...
The slamming of doors:
all these sounds,
as if reality is sonically transparent,
but
are you here with me?

This world is more transparent
than I ever gave it credit.
If you're still here,
I bid you welcome
to the magnificent world
of a millennial extravaganza,
growing beyond the cosmos as if
our minds can pierce the heart of dark
and render mystery a pale reflection of
ordinary!

Yes, if you're here,
still here,
things are very ordinary.
And I can never hide that from you.
I can never make you think these words are legendary,
because I'm here,
and I'm not not here,
so you take me for granted
and though I could spin your mind
like a world on my finger,
people will only wish they could be here with me,
when I'm dead,
but if you're reading this,
I'm here.