Ruminating epoché,
‘I am…’ ‘Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay.
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay
Initiatives imperative consolidation,
Civilly disobedient in expedient disarray.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
Forecast in vague extrapolation,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating the linguistics of silent enclaves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
Probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
The Apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging Aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.

Pale blue violets shimmer
Among rag-tag fungal forests.
Branches tick-tock with
Burly blow of the sky;
Forgotten blossoms from
Your failed antiquity.
The summer that once was
Is hungry for more.

Discontinue your reticence,
Only you can consume your fate.
Green will gorge on you
Despite the bitter chill.

So go, go now and
Sit amongst the campfire.
Forage for the hum-drum you forsake,
**** your soul on a marshmallow pick,
Then eat it all before the night falls.

Derelict tulip tips lay idle on the mantle,
Dangling on the precipice
Of time and the void.
Missive yellow lollipops
Still tinker on tonsil
Like a child gone coy.

Maybe I'll engage myself in a chat with Freud,
Tell him I'm envious, remorseful,
And annoyed.
Golly gosh,
Your soul tastes cloy.

Or was that the marshmallow?

The perseverance of the three legged cat that sleeps in my alley pulls me from my bed each morning.

It stretches its hind leg, taking no time to remember when stretching was a simpler task, minding the gap, yet not feeling empty.

It limps from my alley and continues its search for food, or meaning, or whatever cats search for, and I limp into my bathroom, searching for meaning, but settling for a toothbrush.

I scrub away last night’s dreams of teeth falling from my mouth.  I remember feeling the weight of my off-white molars in my palm, the rough outer edges in numb fascination. I spit the memory into my sink, and rinse.

The kitchen window has a nicer, if less inspirational, view than its brother in my bedroom.  I’ve watched the tree that blocks the city be reborn a dozen times, yet I still feel anticipation every time the brownorangered starts, and I wonder when I’ll grow new leaves.  I grab the sugar bowl from the table for morning coffee, but my grip is weak - I’ve always had trouble holding onto things.  The bowl slips from my fingers, and the ground is covered with porcelain, off-white shards.  I study them, finding a home in the familiarity, and begin to pick up the pieces.