If you knew my mind
If only you could see
Man it's so rare in there it's a mess and it gets dark some spots and there is **** every where, hanging down and piled up, all around and beneath your feet.
Can't hardly take a step without stubbing a toe, cracking a shin, or scraping your knee.
Or rocking your dome
on the crown,
cuz your looking down
Taking care about where
You place your feet.

But it's pretty neat (not like tidy, but it's kinda cool) to see it all blink and beat.
It rains word in there. Sometimes great hurricanes, most times just spits and spurts, but it thunders something spectacular, when the lightning is all around, and it's torrents pouring in Great cascades, and a sudden deluge can flood the stage.
There's this core in there that I found one time, and I could tell it had shell made to keep stuff in. It appeared solid, albeit delicate, egg-shell thin, and I wondered what it contained within. So I cracked it open, consequence be ******, and I found a kind of aticky sweet viscous goo, not unlike melted chocolate, but it glows in pulsing rhythm and can really light up the room. I worry I break it too often, like I don't let it rest and recuperate, heal up its cracks all the way, and refill-up the goop.

I service of this I've noticed some things, Sometimes the fillings change.
Sometimes it is melted chocolate
Sometimes it's carob, and lies and it tastes like ****.
Sometimes it smells like **** too...
some times...
Some times it's doodoo.

Sometimes you can't tell until you really get in there and smell the stain you seemed to have left on the sheets.
I swear it's a Reese's peanut butter egg I brought to bed with me and then forgot to eat.
I must'a laid it down and rolled on top of it. I swear to god, scouts honor -
    I didn't **** the bed.

(He **** the bed;

at least [the very least] -

metaphorically.)




7:02 am 6/14/25

It's a beautiful confusion
From one simple conclusion
I made up on the spot
My life has changed equivocally
And here I find myself
...
     /:
           a little
                           Lost.

•It's a beautiful confusion•

It's a mess up in this noodle bowl
Of wet spaghetti, out here trying
To just
           Figure it out dude,
Jesus Christ!
                Just stabin' with a fork for thoughts,
Trying to get em to wind
But they just keep slipping off
And falling back in line

-But also-

Like Spaghetti Junction at I-20 and 35 (that might be just me
Who calls it that, but it fits the mind
That locked it in. A six year old old boy, visiting his dad in Dallas for the first time)

A mass of twisting
tangled lanes merging
in chaotic looping interchanges,
where ideas collide and collude and rearrange like ******-off commuters
late for their day
Through exits and on-ramps,
flowing freely at times,
and then stopping
dead still
for an hour or two,
every day,
twice a day
...
and when it rains

... Or when it's too full of vehicles
to fit in the lanes;
'cuz you can only fit so much
in a physical space.
And a brain is thing
That really needs a case.

It's bounded and confined
by the number of lines
it can build in any direction,
so it gets backed up
from too much thought traffic
trying to merge too fast,
causing collisions and slow-downs,
and hitting brakes,
and
  and
And the slow-down echos back
through the increasing stack
of moving parts in red-light cascades
and honking, squealing aggression
Like compression waves,


But like...
... At the same time!?!

. Canto I: The Movement .

Sing, O depths, of the sundered and stitched—
of lovers who fled the lattice of men.
They bore no dowry but discord and blaze,
cast off from the courts of the land-born kin.

She rose from a brine-locked temple,
crowned in eelbones and saltglass,
her voice a harpoon through silence.
He came from a pyre of failed gods,
drunk on the ash of forgotten cities,
carrying a heart wrapped in nettle and wire.

They met in the undertow—
not with grace, but with rupture.
He called her flame in the throat of the sea,
she named him the reef that bleeds stars.

They kissed in the eye of a cyclone,
fed each other names never spoken twice,
and shackled themselves in sinew and storm.

Let it be known: they did not set sail.
They were flung—howling—from the world’s wound.


. Canto II: The Recognition .

Seven moons passed through their lungs
before they saw.

Not eyes—not bodies—
but the myths coiled inside each other’s ribs.

She bore a temple in her stomach
where drowned saints wept for the living.
He kept a cemetery behind his tongue
for all the truths he’d butchered with silence.

They laid bare their reliquaries,
cracked open their chests
like oysters of ruin—
and still, they reached.

No mercy. No disguise.
Only pulse and plague.
She screamed her mother’s curses into his jaw.
He fed her the names of storms he never wept for.

Still—
they danced.
Still—
they sank.
Not from weight,
but from knowing.

And the sea, jealous of such raw mirror,
split its throat open,
so even Poseidon would forget peace.


. Canto III: The Resolution .

They did not break.
They were not mended.
They blurred,
like blood in tide,
like prayer in fog.

The sea claimed their names,
then forgot them—
but the bones remembered.

Now coral grows from their vows.
Now whales dream their sighs.

She became the thrum beneath shipwrecks,
the voice in a sailor’s last breath.
He became the itch in the compass,
the pull toward madness at dusk.

If you listen—
truly listen—
you may still hear it:
a hymn of wire, salt, and marrow,
carried on a wave older than time.

Not warning.
Not lament.
But tribute.

To the wire-bound lovers—
to the myth that dared to bleed
and called it sacred.