It’s unclear when time stopped functioning like a linear candle,
but at one point during the night my words echoed
in a loop.
The conversations became gerbils running on exercise balls
while black holes transported me to vast distances
forward and back within the conversations.
Now I know what power the “if-there-is-a-god” “God”
Having enough time and space to examine a conversation from any point
in any space, volume or time.
As we continue talking,
I notice the conversation coming to the climax—
But abruptly it jumps to the end.
My friend looks to me for approval,
and all I can say is that I must retrace my steps
in this moment,
For I arrived sooner mentally, but not spiritually.
What they don’t tell you in the Bible
is how hard it is for the omnipotent asexual being to
processes a conversation from end to beginning.
Imagine starting out with all the facts, and then quickly giving them away,
yet you still had a vague idea that you held all the facts at one point
In the timeline of this conversation.
The awkwardness is so palpable,
I could cut it like a cake…
but only I’m aware the cake is poisoned.
When a slice is handed to me,
I think to myself, “Don’t eat that, it’s poison.”
It’s tough being for the audience to tolerate this.
You know I must eat for the process
and entertainment to continue.
My friend wants answers, and guidance. I’m supposed to be helping him in this time of need, or consoling him in some way.
But I can’t without all the facts
I have a vague idea I once possessed.
Addicted to the transformation of the self
In hearing we see that touch is the only hearth
To warm one's hands in winter near to the fire
A separation of love shows the underlining
Of dotted red when the word one sees to be false
Mother - when the night was young and you were old
Were you able to see the stars without your glasses?
We are the products of products of products of war
The shells of the bullet casings and bomb fragments
How much transparent blood have we bled so far?
Where is the fork in the road that will take us to Shangri la?
Notice that when the woman in the mirror disappears
The cleaning men drop their tattered, dirty & cut wears
Disaster holds the hands of man's growth & evolution
At times I notice the way the wind passes through my sheets
The skirts of the women and the thin hair of the old men
And they are much like the lavish trees that line my street
That hold true form in the pose of nocturnal naivety
And there we are by the carpenter and the pine tree
An "A" for effort attitude that barely got you the diploma
Hard work for the Hare and easiness for the turtle
The last night I worked was like racing through hurtles
So in sight all ye' fathers who break the mold of religion
Hold true and steady when the wind will start to whip
And knowing was never the correct answer & never helped at all
"The whips are where the heart is," the fortune teller is told
Where all is sold for the cheapest and weakest dollar
I pray to you there has to be more then all this squalor
The nightingale awake in the horned' tree cast in moonlight
Waits for its dreams so in the morning it can have a song to sing
Nod off and nod in where this life began I can't even begin
The guitar plays as she types awaiting for Her lapse of sin
Here the night is wired and wild with burn marks around the edges
Here the boss's hair rings like a hornets nest and everyone clings to their rubble
And pushing forward through the snowflake rings of time
Makes me to think that the seasons are only there for our design
"Not in the least bit asexual," the lawyer reads to his wife
In the morning both their breaths will wreak of red wine
Near do well and saying it all as the bathroom stall
Leaks out a liquid familiar to the ancient, early neanderthals
I have written and I have seen and I have breathed the air of every sea
The only thing I now wish to be
Is on the lakefront with new eyes and a frame to seize
When the speed allows the memorization of misfit tyrants
To push the rant to the edge of the hill that lays in dust and ants
Then there is the horizon that God creates for all those Western window sills
Tearing the skin from your fingernails and seeing not a drip of blood
Sloth like reactions reaching for the best spot in the house
The covers torn away as the nightmare in the mind becomes real
All that can be heard is the vibrating walls and the wailing squeals
Through pebble caked walls and finger padded dawn lit rooms
Lay to rest thy' faith for the moon opens your casket & the entrance to your tomb
Whorish knave that makes even the gutter grimace in its disdain
There the nun contemplates a life she could have lived without restraint
And to connection through the way we need to see each other
The push for brotherly love in the face of the dawn of technological revolution
And the hastiness of the way that it was and in the day of running mad men
What are we to do when the push is far more advantageous then the pull?
Where the cliff is in sight and death is more likely to be the safety net?
Awareness that all of men's problems exist for man to work at it
To prepare themselves for the war of wars where later to see
The deaths of their fathers, their mothers, their brothers, their sisters
Was not in vain if the reward of the stars is presented to the young
Where the rivers ripple with Roman like eloquence of progression
To live for another to fight for another to die for a place that would leave you in the gutter
Is the madness that leaves the one's shooting with their heads spinning
Tour the way the rules are made and the books are spun with the hands of spiders
Their webs are infinite and indestructible for they learn from one's before them
Their ways were as intricate and profane in their time
For the envelope was sealed and burned and sworn to forget its own name
The lightness of the this place throws me off in the way the clouds are grey
Letter heads are masted like the wooden ships that produce silver flecks of clay
Our nothingness only pushes us in two directions
Suicide or production
There is a choice that few make with knowing and many without
Which one are you?
Do you cry for reasons for which you cannot see?
Do you believe what you will, or what all the others decree?
Crack of the bed she turns herself over to a man that isn't there
I got a place that I know I belong but to where that is is already long gone
In type the strawberries shine red always appearing to be ruby ripe
And these ghosts of electricity provide neither discomfort or much needed positivity
There were things that I needed to know but never took the time to figure out
So what I'm left with is a world wide open with whatever I want to find is what it is about
The deserts and the canyons, the hills and the oceans all a few of what I wish to see
Where I'll be and where I'll live I don't rightly know now
So I might just get myself a mule and a satchel and get to selling tea