the trees branch as they grow,
the wind cuts through the forest,
the sea breaks into itself eternally—
this is cleaving,
this is creation.  

cells split,
shadows stretch long and thin
over trimmed grass
as the light returns
to the other side.

and now the moon floats
in ghostly meditation,
hinting at what’s hidden
and how close
it all seems sometimes.

I was never far from myself,
except when I was,
and writing this doesn't
make any sense—
why should it?
who’s keeping score?

who’s the grand cosmic judge
of all artistic expression everywhere
across all
dimensions and time?

nobody.
that's who.
nobody cares.
that’s the point.

it doesn't matter what
I say on this page,
even if it's terrible,
even if it’s rotten,
even if no one reads it.
it felt right
to let it flow freely in the moment,
to spill it all out.
that’s what matters—
the spilling of it.

there’s a sweetness in that.
in the clean slice of the razor
and the blood it draws—
quiet,
quick
and true.

drip,
drip,
drip,

all over the page.

The ground is
littered with orange peels
and the stain of citrus
is in the air.

Tender and juicy is the love,
I share my slices with you

Enjoy the madness, its Mortemer's dance!
Swishing and turning its not wishy-washy,
Slashing and cutting the shapes! Oh lord the shapes!
Slicing and spinning then boom! Red confetti.
Look at him go in his marvelous trance!
Spinning and cutting the dance spins in circles as the audience cries 'now do the slip and slide!'
So he slides in real slow now he's in his mojo
He's feeling himself as he's breaking it down.
Its him and himself in his spotlight lit solo,
A pool of composure for his one final flourish;
A swish and a slit, moves never seen before.
The big grand finale and the crowd goes bananas!
There's roses on roses, they pile on the stage!
Mortemer's touched by such lovely affection from a crowd of individuals with no connection.
He'll lie on the stage and soak up the praise.
His roses smell sweet, and his roses are plenty.

They once said that "a piece of cake, is a slice at the beginning your life"...
But is that even true...at the very most end of the spectrum, from which your heart beckons too the very mind that surpluses the very objects (from which is can't find itself in the mess of truthful results), that begin to truly shame the result of even trying to piece things together, time after time...?
NO!
Which are exactly why things don't need to be remembered from right off the bat.
That's because a piece of cake is the truthfully defining reach from which we can't solve the very most bottom remedy from straight out from under our very heartstrings. Heartstrings in the very form of how our very life began. When you were too busy fighting objections too win over your very mind's eye (at the very center of opportunity itself)!
Basically, the very end results, begin with a single fraction of those very "to-do" list heartstrings...that don't truly account for the most interesting of logical finds. Simply put, it literally calls forth (the very claim of one's own arrival) at the very hands of remembering what it was truly like too live again!
Except, when you tasted the very cake that belonged deep in your own heart.
And a heart that is truly beginning anew, again. But with a twist, you see....
Nothing is really the same, after from which you taste this newly found piece of cake, that slices off one end of its own self...and disregards the rest, after the final aftertaste had reclaimed it's own glory.
This is mostly because you think you feel what the mind's eye REJECTS the claim like a chronic storm of results for the such displeasurable spectrum.
Now you know when you slice a piece of cake at the very end of one's own life, and take that slice at the very beginning newly found account...for it is a truly newer start at the very beginning of something entirely new.

I see a boy underneath the bin
He prays desperately to a deaf god
Looming over I can smell his despair
Rocking back and forth in holy existence
Your prayer won’t save you now little duckling
Say I to the rat
But on he chants, on and on to gods and clouds and demons
He names them all, one by one endlessly chanting his desperate canon
Where are your gods now?
Do they serve you a merciful end?
I ask as I slash his throat.

Fifty years from now, I may not be the person whom I thought I would be
I may not have served the job I dreamed of having
I may not be living in a house I dreamed of building
I may not be married with the person I am in love with right now
I may not have made peace with the past

But fifty years from now,
I hope,
I have decluttered my mind
I may be old but I will be beautiful
I may not have reached my dreams
But I will remember the moment I wrote this -
I am young and dreaming
I may have let my younger self down
But somehow I know now what my younger self had not known
I may not have traveled the world
But my eyes have seen what my younger self had not yet seen

Fifty years from now, I may not be as alive as I thought I would be
I may be under the ground with a dirge or requiem
Maybe two or three people crying or maybe none
But as that time comes,
May I never forget
That fifty years ago,
I have fought with my whole life.