There is a pattern of tics in my brain, all
Set to twitching in the space behind the eyes.

If I am the assembly of information under the sky,
I am not the person I am in my mind.

The moon is in the manmade pond where I sit,
dressed in sweet darkness with all the rain.

The problem is my perforated soul—
I am lanced open by the multiplicity of girls and things.

I want to trust the person I am in my thoughts, but I’m falling
Through the many inadequate sounds and words.

Rain blankets the pond—
Infinite, miniscule wave dispersion occurs, overlapping itself.

The intensity of data swerves deep beyond me:
My disappearance takes place in the world of computers.

Love for my daddy and love for a girl
Exchange glances in the digital light;

From my pocket, I draw a small, six-shot pistol—
How fascinating, to learn the system of its design!