Is this
and that’s
all there is
before the thought becomes fleeting
like the next
and the day after,
the clichéd story your mind perhaps
upon
this future mystery of a happening
you've already started remembering

Is this
all we have to look for
forward to
wondering if this brain cell’s
thought creative nerd
to put forth on the edge
on the confrontational
abyss of a blank page
is enough
thorough
fair and still
contradictory enough
to ride the grind
of someone else’s nerve

We wonder
Is this all there is
because we could have
sworn there was more
         than this
to offer and accept and worship and appreciate and cherish and love and adorn
with tiny boxes of truth
on every branch
of something or someone
but we watch and wonder
Is this what I was ever trying to say
It just wound round into
this something of something
spilt on the page
A little dialogue of soul tribes
trying to call a little bit of themselves home.

I want to physically ****** my life
I want to take my life out with a ******
I want to tear it apart with my teeth,
gnaw at it with forgiveness blood
on my cheekbones
I want to hold it between my fangs
and sniff at it with my liver
I want to grapple it perfect,
and inhale the bitter bite
of its wild corpsey stench
And then, I want to nurse it’s beauty
and unwholelyness.

There is more. There has to be more.

More than when you
haven’t finished your question
and the answer is
I haven’t even finished my beer yet
you wonder
what was the question
that you heard
You want to hike through golden gate park and do some shrooms?
Have you ever climbed monkey bars at midnight?
Why are giraffes so tall?

And it all shovel pours into the question
Is there some flux capacitor continuum
where time is enough
where time for me isn't separate
where time for me is always
enough?