7 am
On a cold
Hardly carpeted
Floor of a one
Room apartment
In a ******
Not quite big
But big city
Full of bugs
That flit
And fly
Around me
In flashes
Of astounding
similarities
And I’m wide
The **** awake
Because of the
Cats in heat
And the glimpse
Of the future
In a kitten
Named Fiona
Who is attacking
My outstretched
Hand on the floor
And I wonder
If she really thinks
It’s a spider
Or five snakes
I mean
I really have
No idea what
This chick
Is seeing
Then
The sounds of a
House being
Torn down in
Charred and
Smoke painted
Pieces of wood
And personal things
So sorries
And oh wells
Floods the
Room from outside
And swells to
Replace the
Cats who have retired
To slumber
And the kitten off
Exploring somewhere
And still I lie
Eyes wide
Waiting for the
Appropriate time
To get my coffee
And bagle
And finagle
My way through
Another day
Of the same old
Same old
That old grind
The old grind
The five to nine
After nine to five
And I dive
Into
The image
Of coffee being
Ground and
Its sounds
Lay me to rest.

What is the final treatment for bees?
What is it that keeps the floating buzzes of noise from reaching the ears of the ones who eat golden sap?
What makes us so superior to our selves that we are who we are and not what we are?
How is it that every time there is another counter at the end its always closed?
Why do we endure what we endure and not what others endure?
How is it that the quackles of time aren't tangible?
Where do all these lights comes from?
Could they be a a mere network full of imagination?
The imagination that we use to believe in illusions.
The creaming heat of a bagle.
The freezing cold of a near by possibility.
Everything.
With out the the E.
Nothing is left.
You are what you keep your self from falling into a black hole.
Bur why don't you try to stop it?
As long as a anything can get, does it ever end?
Man made or not.
What makes the making if a maker is what makes the maker of nothing.
Maybe.
Too many possibilities.
This or that?
Is that two?
But what is two?
A free form of a limited end?
I think not.
I think not as a thinker but as a stair case to understand what brings everything to being into words.
If you ever do end, then you are an illsuion of your self. And you do not exist.
You keep spinning with out any direction.
But yet what is it that is?
Gobble gobbke gobble.