**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.

We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.

And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.

If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.

**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.

Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.

Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?

Or
is it that you feel something more. . .  
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?

When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?

The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.

Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .

He suffered more than he thought he would ever suffer,
he hovered over the demons frolicking in betrayal.
How dare they deny the villain they created,
the pain has been too much to bear.
But he knew someday he would long to chase what most fear to face,
a choice to embrace the dark despair then vanish without a trace.

Stricken by a darkening gray his heartstrings a woman played,
the punishment is much to endure, every soul eventually breaks.
So, what should the vengeful do for destiny to intervene,
should the vengeful wait, but he is no longer part of the human race.
A table for two drifting in the shadows, eyes lost in every soul,
one question is left to contemplate, then he whispers into the mirror.

The phantom's revenge, loves vicious betrayal,
a terrible tale shall bring your life to an end.

fear,
but a string

the strand drawn from the
depths of our souls,
composed of insecurity,
fragility,
anguish

it was the string from which I hung

I watched you sail away with her
to places so divine;
to paradises I could not reach,
phantoms of fantasies
I could not meet.
I felt a slow,
bitter
current
kick up in your wake,
awakening nightmarish
symphones
of debts
long-since paid.
There,
on sapphire tides,
I watched your ship leave the port.
Breathed in
simmering flames of Hell.
I might've bid you farewell,
if I could just see
above
the encroaching walls
that shake
and shriek
with the corpses
we called:
"You and I."

I'm in love
with the ghost
of
who you
were