what's the problem with conditional? the binary, if, then, if it obtains at all then agencies that rage in me are illusory potentially, and free will threatened by the counter-factual? it seems more unlikely than the vat i'm floating in.

too high to get out of a chair

worse than knowing that you are a liar,
is knowing that you are lying.
the former, at least, allows for change...

to know what you are is one half of
this great cosmic **** of physical forces
which inexplicably leads to both
the Himalayas and the Kardashians,
after all.

ignoring the paradox of the liar
who states that he is a liar,
let's scale mountains
and cancel our cable.

i was born in a bathtub,
and i don't have the
distinct privilege
to claim that i ever really
got out.

my life has remained,
essentially,
warm.

i have floated atop innumerable luxuries and opportunities
which i do not have the
distinct privilege
to say anyone
ever
pulled the stopper on.

i will ***** and moan,
on the wrong day,
about a downward spiral feeling,
but it's utter *******
and i don't have the
distinct privilege
to say that i don't know it.

the tub is full.
it's warm.
not even too hot,
and there are even ******* scented bubbles sometimes.

i don't have the distinct
privilege
to say that i've overcome
much more than
slight fluctuations in temperature.

never let me tell you otherwise.
i will try.

egos as round as the vanity mirror's bulbs.
the negative correlation between personality,
and the amount of time spent putting on a face.
now, i don't throw this term around, as it is perhaps
one of the ugliest things you can be, but you are a

i couldn't see the landscape
i was watching how you saw the landscape
you really saw the landscape

the view was less lovely than your company
the awkwardness was better than the ease
i may have had to hold back, i'm not sure
i won't hold back once you are certain, i'll be freed

your pets whispered to me that your an angel
even the cat, supine, admitted you were ok
the pristine state of your apartment was a fright
the only fear i felt aside from my own meddling

dating isn't something i ever thought i'd need
but i'd play any game to win your attention
though i might lose i hope it wouldn't matter
if you glimpsed something desirable meanwhile

i think i'd fall for you if you would let me
i'm really a gentleman through and through
i don't trust myself, however, to read faces
one game i cannot play is your emotions

Stop.
This is no poem.
This is an attack on your autonomy.
The verbs chosen with care,
those awful verbs.
Stop.
You are not human.
The electrical activity of your brain,
that's all there is with you.
Much like every brain, you feel--yes,
and you feel quite human.
Stop.
Unhuman inhumanity in the bliss-pool of ignorance.
Why not raise hands to be lifted out?
I warned you that this was no poem.
Yet, still you persist, and read, "you aren't capable of interpreting this because you aren't me."
Not poetry, despite a sneaky rhyme, no it's a piece of me.
Diary with pink ribbons and a list of all the boys at school.
Diary with lock and key within which I hide that which you can't see.
What if we all spoke in rhyme exclusively?
We would be forced to think before we drooled.
And no one could be fooled about just how ugly you are.
Ah, no, but thinking hides more.
Stop!
I might stream consciousness all over your lovely dress!
Then you would be forced to undress under the unbelievable scrutiny of total strangers
who ought not to give a **** but do
because they haven't tried on enough shoes.
Unlike you, who have tried on too many.
As if perspective were a shoe, mass produced, and inevitably falling out of fashion.
Alas, we are stuck with cliche interjections and archaic pronouns--thou know it!
Stop.
I forgot this was a poem.