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cigar capital                    
Florida state fair held there
subtropic Tampa
Dissident Aug 16
Absent any and all calculations,

On the glass-clear viridian seashore,

The ego wave function collapses into

Humidity and rain—

Filled to spilling at the brim with summer thunder.
Rain-

The raw taste of it,

sultry, thick velvet touch to myskin,

Echoes the fresh heat of her riflehot gaze,

and sears into eternity itself
the image
Of her cool, pale naked radiant body against me.

If you would seek me,

Find me here—

Among the eddying vastness of  _

Between the weathered, marble pillars,

Amidst the silent spaces
Of the synaptic web.

Intertwined with

The razored open wound 

Of the event horizon,

Scarlet in its dying rhythmic pulse.

Smooth, in the subtropic lush

Mist, spray, and salt drunk air
 mingle with bloodshot sky.
I Breathe.

Gently

Gentle enough to shatter

The skulls of all the Buddhas

With the nine-pound-hammer of the instant:
Of

Wind,

Wave,

Pine,

Insect,
Foam,

Corona
Silence.
­­
My wiring stripped clean

Of all psychotechnology.

Emptiness now hangs heavy
on the ancient blackened hook

Of ivory starlight.

Within that deepening indigo dusk

Fingerprint smudged in charcoal gloom-
This feral,
Omnicentric / six-sense animal 
Dreaming-awake
Above and within Chronos' labyrinth.
Recollects effortlessly the
Seven billion years lived

On the delicate edge of a moth’s wing,

That I might better savor the weight, and crush of moonlight.

Eons in their trillions spent
As the color green,

Meditating through blotted out eons
On each exquisite shade of decay.

So simply remembered,

Are the lifetimes,
& cycles of lifetimes spent
As softness—

Now a lone petal breaks free of the bloom,

Falling,

Swimming,

Diving,

Dancing,

In ecstasy,

Arcing In flawless helix -

Absent any and all calculation.
Dissident Oct 11
I still feel like a boy sometimes,  
tempted to roll out  
toward the edge of things,  
where the Earth falls away  
into silence,  
and the warm dark swallows me whole.

I lie here,  
stillness itself,  
lost in the scent-memory  
of my mother’s dying breath.

I am there, fully—  
with her agonal breathing,  
cold pale limbs,  
and I am outside,  
in the palm’s slow sway  
under the warm subtropic night,  
undifferentiated.

With her final burgundy heartbeats  
fading,  
I am singing  
in the last chorus  
of ten thousand cicadas.

— The End —