Three people
stand upon
a peninsular
rock revealed
overnight from
beneath the
rolling waves
looking out
towards
Port Angeles,
each absorbed
in their smart
-phone, save

for rotating


photo opportunities



with the entire



           planet


                              itself.

Both my inner

& outer companions

cannot accompany me

any further.



Each have their

own lives

to live.

Strange artists;

even we wish

to marry the

sentiment. Marry

the "factual"

C.R.E.A.M

or "CASH

RULES EVERY

-THING AROUND

ME."


But if it truly

rules over us,

which, in fact,

it does,

then let's call

its neurotically

quantified

condescension

for

what it is:

"The Divine Right

of Kings."


And we already

beat the living

legitimately-validated

****

out of that narrative

a long, long while

ago.


"Hello? Are you

human & have

you been listening

for the past

100,000 years?"


Rhetorical

question.

Yes,

you have.

Solvent catechisms

dripping thru the ashes

of complacency,

like a burnt-out cosmos

weren't enough to convince

a high-ender like me

not to dance along

to the beat

of my own

sordid

drum.

Collecting lonely moments

while not technically "alone,"

a recipe for bite-the-bullet recovery

from on high.


The bonds between I & "Other"

seem to strain

to the point that they

ALMOST snap...

whether in collapsing disconnection

or the simple anxious pulse

of "all" in disassociation,

like identity

was nothing more

than a summer lawn

adorned in trampolines,

with ideas of ID's

bouncing up & down

like an ambivalent parade

of helium balloons.