The poem began thus:
(The poem thus began:
“The poem began thus:
‘Thus, the poem began:
“Thus began the poem.
”’”)‘Thus, the poem began:
“Thus began the poem.”’

Thus the poem began:

new sphere--you knew
it was here all along,
hung on the tip of every brain,
heart & tongue, but held back
by our capricious lungs
& blanched knuckles
clutching the nous fear
like clumps of salt tossed
across left shoulders of causeways
long since sheered into the sea;
the carrier of all songs sung
by souls all sizes, both old
& young--we knew.

when we breach
the full breadth of our understanding,
we'll understand
the full breadth of our ignorance.

sense the essence
audibly seen in the butterfly's
shimmering iridescence
flapping its wings
at hummingbird speeds
conducting tones
of concentric rings
emanating matter
& meanings of things
soaring through volumes
of decibel dimensions
embedded in grooves
of mass intentions
measured in tomes
of cultural moves
toward concrete walls
of gaseous oppression
sold in vials to
quell our depression
of what?

our souls don't fit
within their cubes, nor
diamonds, spheres,
pyramids or tubes--
they sink into love
like black holes in time:

with unstoppable force
toward all that's sublime.

reality television
doesn’t just sell a vision
it crawls & squirms like
disease-ridden worms
contracted through the eyes
to terrorize the temples
of self & hope, pushing us down
this precipitous ***** of
cannibalization feeding on
station after station & projecting
its virus to every nation
LOOK@ME
LOOK@ME

why?
what ever have you done
beyond sell your being to
the vultures circling the
stumbling corpse of dignity
cackling in the sunny waste
at our utter lack in taste
eroded by the steady stream
of soulless visions hellbent on
sowing never-ending divisions
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

but it’s never enough
because the machine is lubed
& cheap to boot, all the better
for the execs collecting loot
thus the only prescription
is to denounce this fiction
with the utmost conviction
and step back into
reality.

at a blistering pace
they fiddle with space
folding here to there
and then to now
and all we do is
wonder how

instead we should see
that time’s hands are we,
balled up in fists of idiocy
with knuckles bloodied
by history
pulling triggers and pins
to win shinies and loot,
never pointing to the
victims dying in soot

the fingers tease & unravel
the fibers and threads
woven from the start
when they should be
weaving a new living art

Heave and **
and pray all day
and you just might go
to the place we all love
but no one knows
(no guarantees, though)
because as you can see
you just might not be
the right kind of being—
even though you’ve got
lots of dough
(and maybe a plane)
you forgot your brain
and dropped your heart
(the most vital part)
because what you don’t see
or can’t bear to accept
is that heaven’s hiding
right inside your chest