The fly,
drawn by its addiction
to sweetness,
enters the pitcher plant.
Tired and drugged,
slipping on downward
pointing hairs
it falls into
the digestive juices
that dissolve its goodness
leaving only
its hard
chitin
skeleton.

You can only spend so many hours in labs, study groups and classrooms - under relentless, fluorescent lighting - before you start feeling life withdrawal.

When I hit that stresshold, I need to rebalance myself.

I could go to the New Haven harbor - I find the ocean endlessly relaxing - or for a quick fix, I can always rely on the warmth of multicolored product packaging.

For the last one, a grocery store will do. I’ll walk the bright, prismatic cereal aisle, and run my finger gently along the gratuitous, rainbowed variety of selections.

It’s a soothing gesture that I repeat several times. A reminder that there are still beautiful, shiny things out there, on demand, in the uncomplicated, non-academic world.

thin. paper thin.
here is a bonus. (or is it bogus?)

the order of release.
the order of dead pages gliding in the wind.

advertisements for adopting a lonely asteroid or building fire extinguishers in your spare time.

the rain of acceptance comes with dark clouds of shipping and handling.

just check the appropriate box and send it in. send it in now!

I'm like a Vulcan when you aren't around - logical, distant, evaluating you like a product with my friends. The consumer with a lifetime of buying.

But near you I’m a prisoner of some consciousness independent of thought, like a fever or the dreamer, with the merest semblance of control.

You are light and loose, hair like Spanish moss and skin like cedar resin, all laughter and agonizing beauty. The way you lean across the table I only think of kissing you.

I'm sure at times it must show, like a red stain on a white dress or some inconvenient *******..

You have some license on me, a key to a place in me I keep hidden and close, you fit some interior template of desire.

What good is freedom if I can't tell you!!?

Oh, the ragged vagaries of loves games. 1000 emotions and I am deserted to silence by some rule of thumb - by a faltering consumer confidence or some feeling of inward nakedness - when all I want in the world is an open kiss or to give you an intimate scented something...

Separated by progress
We live in isolation
Socially stagnated
Growing ever distant.

Focus further inward
Without hesitation,
Cutting off future conflicts
Before they even happen.

Perspective and reality
No longer separate
Echo chamber catalysts
Shattered-faction fragment.

Elitist tactics brainwash
Entire populations,
Localised abundance withers
With dying vegetation.

Doomsday clocks lurching
Our salvation diverges
Shouting to the twilight sun
We share but false elation.

Entire regions' designated
Means of production
No new doctrines allowed
All hail consumption.

Ever directionless, at a loss
Regressing into violence:
Revolutionaries' proudest
Of our failed revolutions.

Living out our dreams
Of solitary bliss,
Live alone in harmony
Or die in the abyss.

What piece of work is man
That chooses inhumanity
A species in a chasm
Led by mere savages.

Paradise is a state of mind
In a place where there is plenty-
A place where on your down time
Things look more than just pretty.

Paradise can mean a lot of things,
It can be multiple places.
The coming & going of years
Passing over different faces.

Paradise can bring you fortune-
Her smile may even give some fame,
But she levees a heavy tax
For all who stand to gain.

Paradise takes your heart & soul
Just to make you feel at home,
Not knowing whether you’ll get to leave
Feeling broken or as a new whole.

Paradise is a vacation-
Paradise is a job.
Paradise is exploitation-
Paradise is a massage.

Paradise is a place to enjoy
As others are made to suffer,
With money standing in between
To play the role of buffer.

Paradise is a cup of coffee
Paradise is a broken promise
Paradise is a rolled up leaf
Paradise is a stolen profit

Paradise is whatever you
want it to be,
As long as you make it yourself
& don’t steal it like a thief.

The greatest mastery of self
is to do nothing.
We are doers
programmed to do,
to solve, to be busy
creating problems
just to solve them
rewarding ourselves
with ever more destructive prizes.
We congratulate ourselves
for our compulsive expenditure
like an addict congratulating
themselves for turning back
to the needle.

We are all addicts.

The true anarchist
does nothing.