because you sit
in the truth and
wonder if you've
been lying to your
-self all your red
-light life.

Instability.

Keyword: instability.

Mid-May and the room has a blue cold, runny nose, condensation clasping the window like a quiet leech. Through the narrow chinks of my cavern, I can glimpse a computer surrounded by world in peripheral; fish eye vision like religious fervor, I realize life has made a lasting impression on whatever I am.

whatever I am.

Dream fades to life, life fades to dream, some alien language crash landed on Earth and now we all speak English (except, you know, the ten thousand other dialects all branched from the Indo-European earth worm). People like to say that everything changes. Nothing stays the same. Does the fact of change never change? Does that not make constants a possibility, even if only within the Many World Interpretation of Quantum Physics (capitalized! it's a name and 'Quantum Physics' likes playing the smiling subtitle ( :) ) ) now I wasn't in Copenhagen the day a jury of physicists decided on Reality; but I was in Reality (capital R) so I'm sure that counts for something.

They say they don't know who 'they' are; as if a brief allusion to a greater network somehow invalidates the point (but 'they' is the 'you' you decide to ignore; the 'you' composite of influences 'you' simply grew around; 'they' is the part of yourself 'you' keep tucked away comfortably like a newborn child that doesn't know any better).

leaves manage, don't they?
blown away by float planes,
thrown away by old dames,
the same game,
return.

your cells manage, don't they?
sewn away by atomic frames,
time lapsed to transform again,
the same game,
return.

Leaving my phone on the
morning strewn bed, the
bus courses by and drags
me along for the ride. Old
high school friends pulse
through my head and I
contemplate their distance.
Every unrecognized human
who seeps into view or
distance causes me to bury
into my phone and feign
distraction. Feign importance,
like someone is paying attention
to me. Until I realize my phone
is my hand and my real phone
is still fast asleep in Asia.

I feel like a ghost today.

Not one word shared between
others as real as me, I figure
I'd feel as lonely at the bottom
of the ocean as I would on
-stage in Madison Square
Garden. 4 hours of work
slithers by like an injured
snake. After exactly an
hour and 17 minutes on a
bus home, addiction knits
the phone into the palm of
my hand like resentful lovers
wishing they didn't need each
other. Only 1 text message
and it's my significant other
slipping me recognition. Old
high school friends pulse through
my head and I contemplate their
distance. I return recognition
to my lover and hear nothing
from her for hours to come.
None of these old high school
friends seem to acknowledge
what I thought was love between
us. I pretend not to care as the
world ignores me and fall back
into the confused trance of
'keeping busy.'

I feel like a ghost today.

What happened to the school
-yard friends? The late nights
spent with nowhere to be?
The happy conundrum of life
as a game? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom? What happened
to freedom?

I hold a sliver of hope that one
day life will electroshock my
existence back into existence.
It's been a beautiful fight, but
lets hope the war is over by Christmas

*** momma, I'm coming home.

Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'

Ankles dry, calloused thoughts, skin peels to reveal oozing flesh. **** sinks in and swallows floating zinc; immune. Consuming ex-cadavers in mall parking lots and pushing the crippled in shopping carts, an ankle twisted, a mother swallowed monetary *****, the stock market became the shelf market, and creation wondered if we were okay with frozen pizza for dinner.

Life dragged on and on, the world swirled on twitter feeds and Facebook statuses, the streets completed laps around our better judgements and our better lives, we sank to scheduled escapism and believed that one day we would find the light despite our never left-look.

Massive intention swelled to disjointed shark search. A witch-hunt to burn unhappiness in it's own angry passion. Bones; cost efficient at the least and designed in the weirdness of erosion-return. Miniature intention swelled to grabs solidarity. A manhunt to freeze stillness in it's own endless silence.

What complete? What shatter-tastic ******?

Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'

cough

cough

     ahem

  she's we, you see

        creep. liquor. creep. sack of ****, that's what that is. creep.

                    liquor.

core of intention:

              laughter. peace.

core of contentment:
          
             love. laughter. peace. creativity. freedom.

core of love:

            love.

core of life:

            laughter. peace. freedom. wellbeing. love. creativity. kindness.

core of modernity:

           gross domestic product.

you are an

artful

      equation.

   equatorial
                        warmth.

     breadth

                 of  

                      theres-nowhere-else-I'd-rather-be.

     ( I
         Love
                 You )

so exercise is the logical conclusion.
illogically, my matted lack-of-a-
shower and my swollen lymph
node to the point of painful
swallows speak nothing in
the way of 'yes' or 'no.'
At this point,
I'm just lonely and jealous of the worlds
'okay,' and can't be bothered with little
touchies like- oh, perhaps she meant it?
we meant it, by any measure. concussive
doubts rain on my soul like laughter,
intention; lymph node aches as I chew.
time to call a doctor. time to call a dr.

33% on your physics test
but somehow you understood
the laws of motion well enough
to climb aboard a bus, move
your legs in such a way to
create repeated momentum
until your arrival in a class-
room where you arranged
graphite particles in such
a way as to demonstrate
a clunky understanding
of what you get perfect
A's in when it comes to
practice.

Intuition, maybe?

artfully, you filled me with ***** like
a Boston cream donut. thank you for
nothing but a terrible surprise.

not an option, consent. not an
option to the body and the
body and the solid
soulid body.

miracles
are
                          made of physical

matter.

so is your textbook.

              so is your Bible.

'Time is a created thing,"
so it's my fault I'm waiting
for work. One thing I need
to surgically remove from
my head is the idea that
being at work is like talking
on the phone all day because
someone has told you to,
while life keeps calling on
the other line and you're
too busy to answer. I get
sad often. I go to bed sad,
wake up sad, feel alright
at points throughout the
day (depending), return
home, feel sad, and
wonder if the 't' in
'satisfied' could be
replaced in my life.

'sad-isfied.'

if I'm not broken,
don't fix me.