Then I heard from a passing auto, with a Sirius
half-mile bleed in the dry desert air, A guru
I recognized, saying... of tamed  earthlings
they and those who inform them, do
become
Too constipated about every thing,
swallowing yesteryears whole,
unchewed, and set to
digest the whole truth,
- Moses or Valis - sortasame
- Big Gulp
then tell it, as you will, no ****.
You are mortal, you cannnot not
gnoshit smells stinky,
nogood stinky,
mmgood insinct, too, scent
of a wombed

mind, crying more, more, more,
can you imagine,
poor Solomon, surrounded
by wives and concubines', praying
together, thy kingdom,
come in me,
let me bher the child to stomp
the accusering head,
let my barren womb bloom…
- the child serpent wise
- dove harmless,
- let it be me

yeh, song of solo,mon,
makes no carnal minded sense,
who ever took the time,
to compose those lines,

wished ever to know, once
a fluid mind rose into the ever was,
and saw too many told tells to retell,

how dude, did you guess?
- got a clue from sadhu, guru

Guess what.

When the song of love plays,
I won't have it on repeat.
When love is in the air,
I'll wear a mask. Don't need to get love sick.
When love tries to brush,
I'll stand my ground, not to get swept off my feet.
When love holds a knife,
it won't steal my heart. I won't entertain a thief.
And when love goes lost,
it won't make me cry or give me grief.

But isn't that what we all say?
Till love does all of those things,
and we fall in love one day.

Yes! Love is definitely strange.

pouring all the water in the glass, till the glass starts spilling out everywhere
this happens every time she drinks from it
she's fully aware of it, but allows it to keep spilling
wetting her shirt, the floor, and the table
drops on her skin racing to the floor, trying to beat gravity

meanwhile they were in front, watching all of it
wondering why she isn't doing anything to stop it
second-hand embarrassment is what they felt
for the fact that she can't simply drink a glass of water without spilling it all
"what a mess" they thought

nobody wanted to be around that girl
"stupid" and "strange" are words that were used to describe her
because at such an older age, how can she not drink a glass of water?
how can she not control herself?
how does she not think about how uncomfortable it is for others to watch?

she knew what was happening, but continued to let it happen
she watched as everyone judged her, but still kept on going
is it inconsideration or self sabotage?
she wanted to see if they would see past that
but in the end, she realized that was what she was defined as

When fear is coming out of the unknown
And the dream are the only places you know

When the day becomes the nightmare
and even the air becomes so rare  

The streets I've walked down a thousand times, become unknown
My neighbourhood, my childhood street, feels like a ghowsttown

The faces I long to see, never show
The familiarity becomes strange, when only eyes are shown

Heres to the endless working powers
And the time that flies by whilst we are standing still

The hope becomes stuck in the past
Everything that is going on seems to have forever to last

Time that only comes by once,
Weve been robbed; our years and months

Our youthfull dreams on stand-by, we can't fulfill
The whole world is holding still

A bump into strangers we long for
A better future we hope for

But time seems to take its time
And its shape keeps changing, like we do with this time

We are all immortal in our own time. Today I feel the warm caressing touch of life across my beleaguered face. Death does not escape me, but in this moment I am alive. One is immortal, if one has yet to understand what it means to die.

II

Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiralling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the corridor, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and we were told to identify faces in these coffin paintings. All day we tried matching, mouth stuttering half-formed names, lost faces, amputated body parts, strangers’ fragmented memory. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw creatures known as man and woman – to the woman on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the man on the left she pointed at the eyeless painting, said, stranger, this is you– and they wept together.

I

I was told that faces persist, could wear away pebble, wind, and sand. Rivers, long and winding, and the rain, always so strange, mingle with rippling ashes of our ancestors, their fingers dipping through charcoal powder, tracing animals over stone’s face, carving bodies out of empty space, faded faces on walls. We are not a dream, they were saying. Not flashes of an aged old dream. Sand-like memory, look for us.