we have fallen into a path of billions,
and shed by a units' worth
of tears...
   thus we are sooner complete
to have a narrative by ignoring the billions
that come like mongolian hordes,
i mean, black guy replaces slap-stick
humour like a white boy can't compete
with...
  we have fallen into a path of billions...
and competing, as we are,
with the frail fame frame of our current
idols: we can only fake it for
so long, before the cracks, and the creases
expose us for what we are...
curiosities of the once living...
Chopin made a second home in Tokyo...
and a lot of things happened in between...
the moments i sometimes experience are rare,
they're rare... so i have them, and reduce
the rest as: they sort-of happened...
     it's almost like they are purposed to be clad
in niqabs...
        it's a beauty you're not supposed to see,
or "supposed" to...
      i can't but listen to the comic strip of
chappelle tearing into it like a hyena...
         it just happens,
one minute i'm reading a philosophy book
by some german, the next i'm playing
ping-pong with an english poet...
the former numbs me, the latter wakes me,
but i need the former as much as i need
the latter...
whole's the word, and mama is the world...
for whatever foetus there is to revive...
  we have fallen into a path of billions...
a path of billions...
    papa narrative ca'n't navigate this *****
to complete it's cyclone for the miracle of life...
papa is perched on a tree,
dangling and raven-clad raven-nail bound itching
for a signature of stasis...
the suggestion comes as:
how to remain in one place, and not bother deviation?
as blue as dyer's woad,
there i, of no celtic origin a new-coming,
antagonist anti-sax... are fooled
in taking what needs earning with enough vocab.
  yet only of my home, yet only
of my home i once could have earned a living in...
not here, not now,
      what with a household barren and no
patriarch in site am i to inherit?
        to give me, nobility?
           what is noble about this barren house?
if not mere graces of a role in itself
never governed by the role, as partiarch?
i feel nothing but a need to absolve the rite,
rather than inherit the rights that would
only lead me astray, and lead me toward a fate
twice unforgiving as the state of either sea,
or desert. i have no future here,
no past, nor present,
language as such will not lumberjack these trees...
language or the mere utility of it
will not carve mountains from height to plateau...
it will not do that...
           i have no season to behold
the sun as being equal in spring, the season
of the fair of muses..
   i have no season to behold my heart
    as thoroughly equal minded...
the answer comes, resounding,
thoroughly, throughout summer, autumn,
and then in glacier, and the night,
        as the wintry romance...
or akin to narcissus dancing on a canvas
of a frozen lake... before drowing when the ice
gives way...
   so toward that aesthetic gravity,
prone to romance, and tragedy,
for not common in a crowd succumbing to comedy...
     not Tristan nor Isolde lived
toward a retirement age...
        few are requiring, and even fewer require
such comforts...
                          to live, a comfortable life...
even though, it would seem,
the harder we make advent toward
living a life best gambled, rathern than
pharmacologically grated into pills cheese and
too-late philosophy... the more we are
left least suspecting that we have lived a life
to those standards stretched and exampled;
as was worth, the already stated take on
having gambled.