so
people say that there are things
    objects
    abstracts
    other people
    earth's natural boundaries and bounties
that urge  or maybe converge the mind
into action - though most probably think the act,
they reverie in what they dream as exceptional.

so
here is an ideal,
a prototype esteemed
like that emblazoned scrap of paper
with the birth names and letters
dotdotdot etc ...

so, tell me
are you aspiring
or laying deep
in the molds ?
will it buy you a ring for your trophy ?
will it make you prolific ?

we would not know happiness,
if only for the grand stories
told to us of our entitlement
to enjoy our senses. well,
look at this container,
you were perfectly crafted
to roam
with intention, across all spaces
conquistadoring and
expanding and
'destroying to create'
whatever the **** that means

and never learning not to rear our ugly heads
to the paradise
breastfeeding
us,
or to the processing
keeping us bred
nice and tidy.

so
there is the ambiguous person again,
and is there something wrong with monotony,
does it imply a good in consistence
does it lend translation to the static
     (coming up and out of your roaring mouth;
           he is an angel, i grant it worth.)

so
be inspired by feeling.
that dumpster over yonder is what it
is, as your lobes transmit
and lucidly self actualize ::

i am not here to convince anyone
but myself.

you flutter, but you're still in every aspect
of this creviced existence. it may be best
to act as decoration in a decorative world,
the prettiest are always happiest, the ones
who feel exalt or cry in creation will even-
tually turn numb, or ice-cubes for pink
margaritas, or reproductions on cascade
walls of white-picket dwellings in a trajectory
of white and beige houses like a ***** line
of *******. pain is temporary. numbness
is forever when it shoots for the brain
and not the stars, when overcast skies
become the reason for inner-living and
streets are scary and trees are mere
necessity for your breaths to filter, for
your chest to flutter as it does, as it so
surely and unabashedly does. you
flutter, but you're as still as decoration.

i Know exactly who you are,
and i know very little of where you've been
who's touch left a mark
or suckled at your side ---
i don't really care to know,
but i also don't really care.
you may prEtend
that i am just another blindfolded
beauty --- you don't but you
Very well could
not at my expense
by in your defense
scared child
and one who chides
In fury
like a seesaw in sway
a question toppling another ...
i'm not trying to dig so deep,
    it happeNs
    it shrugs
    you shrug
           i tear on off
today tada no witchcraft here!
--- you know exactly who i am.
there is something i can't hide.
there's a place i don't know about.
and it creaks
collects dusts, mutilates
and folds over in a creepy
crouch, just Zoning inandout
of your consciousness.
you've found the deceAsed girl,
the 'I-could-never-love-a-soul'
under troll-bridges girl ... and i've been nowhere

but here.

and i know nothing of you
excePt as you are to me
when you're tangled in my extras
controlling your relAxandrelease,
and i'm the pretender, i act like i knew anyThing
before you
as you Atmosphere around me
and ship me off in mist to sleep

there is no worse folly
a raconteur can make than

the forgotten pen

or utensil
acrylic or stick in dirt - so be it
the dwarf ignored
the arbitrary sidekick
the austere tool

the maker of magic (also known as,
history, as
recorded by big, bad meatsacks
and sometimes hungry sheep luxuriously garbed as
wolves)

who/what/when/where/why
never/stop/asking/questions

my deity, the earth said
no one is right in this world
we tells it hows we sees it
i reject your reality, you undo mine
with a simple twist of your mouth-muscle
who's to say who has a say

I say, no one not one none of us.
I say, keep writing bards.

the world's a desolate & treacherous stage
the world's a blank & ***** canvas
the world's not so much an open book,
as it is an open cave with mysteries deeper
than ocean depths.

I say, keep writing bards.
swim through the carpal tunnels,
the holy grail lies somewhere down there,
it looks and acts like an ink well.