When this timeline is hit,
And the timeclock ticks,
You'll hear those engines clink,
And I'll re-arrange all of this.

Better charge the portal gun,
Get buckled up on the Space Cruiser.
"Wubba Lubba Dub Dub!!"
Let's get out of this universe, Rick.

Rattle on
And do so backwards
In the insular hole
Strangle lo’
To and fro, in herds
Build for me a pole

Wail along
And do so sweetly
In my crooked glyphs
Sail strong
To lands discreetly
A flintlock at your hip

Walk across
And do so sideways
In a tiled oasis
Count the cost,
To hands that play
Deal out epistasis

Swim away
And do so upwards
In a veiled monsoon
Drown the day
To Carinae
Seek its vagrant moon

In the beginning everything was still.
Then there was an itch or ache and totality stirred.
A dance was born.
Wave after wave of color emerged.
Rains of sound were released from the center.
The original impulse became two, trees, fire.
Its unity was broken, reflected from a trillion eyes.
Rhythm appeared as an essential trait.
Pulses emanated, at times violent, at times sad.
Wonder and angst ******* inside the skull’s crater.
A mad civilization rose, structure after structure.
A sea of ideas now saturates the air.
Here we are in this vast corner surrounded by a cosmos.
We are the same as IT.
These images are throbs of that primordial energy.
I have created nothing new.

Playful words in the mind
it creates illusion and image
of such scene
elevated into flamboyant sight
of magic and dreams
gather all the feelings
and emotions
through.

Driving down the interstate,
Staring into the dash,
Hydroplaning (lost in thought and
Glowing by too fast).

At first I think the droplets
Lay down smoothly on the glass,
Like a most precious mosaic
Painted in the distant past—

But NO.
This holds no loveliness at all:
No orderly blueprint here, just
Clearish blue that splatters
And perilously bars my eyes
From seeing the road ahead.
I notice how the teardrops hit
With no apparent pattern.
They land, the wipers swipe them down,
A moment of clarity—
Then immediately more rainbombs fall and I'm blind once again.

The wipers and raindrops speak to each other
With the voices of my soul.
The rain is yelling:
LOOK AT YOURSELF. YOU ARE WORTHLESS.
In every wipe I hear the frustration:
LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. YOU SHOULD BE HAPPY.

Splash
"Look at that, you're fat!"
Wipe
"People tell you you're beautiful all the time."

Splash
"Look in the glass—you're as pretty as an ***!"
Wipe
"Appearances aren't everything."

Splash
"True for some, but not for you; you have no talents or smarts in you."
Wipe
"But you got a degree! In a field that you love!"

Splash
"Three prospect-less years have gone by; maybe you're just not meant to fly."
Wipe
"You have people that love you—even a cherished man!"

Splash
"Love me they do, I know it's true; still they grow tired of my ever-gloomy hue."
Wipe
"............."



Driving down the interstate
Staring into the dash
Noticing the ceaselessness
Of the raindrops on the glass.

I know the storm will never end;
It will always bring me grief.
The only escape from the tempest
Goes against my own beliefs.

I'm certain how this night will end:
With the dull scrape of relief,
Back to my vice that helps me cope
With demons underneath.

What if we said that we didn't have to fall to our knees to get our way?

What if we said that we didn't have to bend ourselves backwards for anyone but our own dreams? Or maybe not even then?

What if we could sprout wings and fly to anywhere we wanted to without asking for permission?

What if I could decide my own fate, my own destiny, my own consequences, my own future, my own life, my own world and never have to worry what they whispered about us?