Martin Buber, I and thou,
du, nicht Sie,
see, I am, thou art and it is
nothing other.

Okeh, the sound, not the letter runes
to fix my meaning
to your way of taking grace
as granted.

Simple magi?
I am acted on by your you, I see,
how strange I seem, from you, looking
out
for one,
I say, one, may say, what I am then not
accountible for, or something like that, eh
no-account, you know
who you seemed to be in that one book, you passed
through
in a trance, thinking this feels real, as any reason given
listen, we are not the first to make this connection,
it only feels crazy at first, then it turns, eh
turn turn turn a spiral *******
as from the too small to imagine past the last edge
of ever and back to now,
speed of thought imaginable due to vast increase
in how far our tools can go to gather bits
to blow up with AI assistant importance, gage,
the twisted spot a galaxy, by god, there are billions
of
billions of things, and I have but one breath.

What am I to be,
wait and see, I think I am the string, soaked in hummingbird
juice from the feeder, from when the oriole tipped the balance,
and soaked me,
the string,
thinking this is as absurd as being a bug, and I have been led
to imagine being tried, while being a bug,
and some time,
after all
that
I thought I ought to imagine Sisyphus happy, due to not knowing
the whole truth of any given circumstance,
here I and it is me and thee, the ready written
and the reader wrote. I am with you always, even, smooth, no
ripple, even to the final valley filling with peace
I made with friends since who knows when,
this is the time, we gather to measure
worth of knowing who has lied,
to whom, today, all things being open, to the art intuitive, thou
seest all things, each thing
accounted for in the grand motion going
on, make it better,
AM BIG I dare you, live on and learn off chance bets
cheat the stats, if you knew what I know
then, when it counts.

You be the judge. What good can contain the likes of us?

The ***-bellied Mercedes squealed
As Meursault withdrew and
Marvelled at the flames
Licking
The air
Like marigolds on Ritilin.
'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.'
He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers.
The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him.
Leaking smoke reminded him of
Snow White’s Cottage
Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born:
The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood.
He liked the way her roses played
With the restlessness of children.
Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'

One must imagine Sisyphus ripped.
Shoulders like Boulders.
Quads like God's.
He was literally doing Olympian training!

Broken lovers float around
Like blind shadows looking for light
And sleepless walkers searching for night.

Like burned matches in winter forests
Disguised as trees,
Awaiting fire.

She was that Chekhovian girl
who fell for Dostoevsky
and Camus and Sartre
and
   you.

This mind,
this ability to create,
and study and learn
and teach,
this is the tool which harms us.
This mumbling about meaning,
this world devoid of purpose,
the world from which it sprung.
-the struggle at it's root
and so the Absurd is born.

but your way of
v a n i s h i n g
has the power to question
my own existence.
was it real? or was it just an awfully
l
o
   n
     g
       dream?

- анна о. к.