Am I drinking
the whiskey
or is the whiskey
drinking me?
Hmm...
- mce

Watching my
demented mother
water plastic flowers
on her porch,
I come near
to seeing my face
before I was born.
~ mce

"Impulse is master",
said the learned man.
"It brings disaster
to a pondered plan."

But what about choice?
That's what I've been taught.
Trying speech, no voice
came, instead forethought

echoed through my head:
speak, and you'll be trapped!
I sat, mute as lead;
the man, smiling, clapped.

when the story ended before it's beginning
there wasn't any trace of anything
even on the event horizon
the creator didn't have any chance,
to make up anything
on the drawing board of his being
couldn't sense what was meant of him
the plot hasn't sprouted anywhere
in the vast field of thought fertile
so no need ever did arise to forget anything
there wasn't any apparition of  good or evil, love or hate,
that'd  appear on earth, fire, air, space or water; not even nothing.

Are you the dynamic person you said you are 4,000 years ago? With no intoxication the conversation’s a bore. The stakes aren't high enough. I’m conditioned by the narrative and we’re all pretentiously pedantic, spewing poison at the heroic romantics.

I've lost my coper’s cloak. I remember how I dropped the dry ones at the river bank, I cut off my imitator’s finger, and as I fell into the tiger’s pit, I grasped a strawberry to make me sweeter. I crowned the beast a hero, cause out of perfect tiger dharma he tore off the limb that led him from his prison. Yet, the human dharma is to save all beings from our reckless peering.