Come Sunday that day of leisure
Between sulci fish shallow gyri
Reel out meter form a measure
Come Sunday that day of leisure
Weekday words weakly pleasure
Scarcely etch decay'd papyri
Come Sunday that day of leisure
Between sulci fish shallow gyri

I never had much of an ability to be anything except an emotional disaster. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside of my head, and when I did it was usually to dive headfirst into the head of someone else. I spent the vast majority of my daily life in a broken-down shell of myself masquerading as someone that had their **** together. For some reason, people accepted the facade. That’s what they usually ended up liking.
    I always regarded myself as a disease. I had an incubation period that was relative to how long it took someone to get me to trust them. After that, the cells of my disease would rapidly multiply and explode, permeating the membranes of all of their senses and rationalities. My disease would break through the double-helix of their DNA and integrate itself in the fragile bridges of their nitrogenous bases, reflecting adenine for their thymine, cytosine for their guanine until finally the helix reunited, delicately interconnecting the chromosomes as I spilled out all the worst sides of myself.
    The infectious agents of my toxicity would then slowly descend the ladders of hydrogen bridges and filter back out through the phospholipid bilayer to swim freely into their bloodstream, swimming through their veins to seek out the nervous system. Freely hopping along synapses, my disease gently touches neurons and triggers proteins buried deep inside their nuclei, causing the slow degradation and eventual apoptosis, killing off the ability to recognize that I am not a normal person.
    The electrical impulses spread from axon to axon, igniting a ridiculous idea that I am no disease. The toxins follow the impulses, riding along the shockwaves. The toxins arrive in the mind and slide off the branches of electricity to hold fast to brain proteins, forcing them to take on the shape of the toxins and eroding holes in all the neural processing centers that govern reason and logic, robbing the person of the ability to detect all the red flags I wave frantically in front of their faces.
    The toxins slide into the erosions and stand upon the corpus callosum, the delicate connection between the cerebral hemispheres, and wonder at the magnitude of the destruction they cause. They take a running start and leap from hemisphere to hemisphere and back again, skipping between the associative areas and primary cortices so the immune system cannot ever catch them.
They settle in the prefrontal cortex, the seat of neural power, the orchestra of complex thought. The toxins settle deep into the gyri and sulci, wedge themselves into the folds of all the grey matter.
Once infection is over, once I have eroded the very cytoskeletons that hold their cells together, they breathe, “I love you.”

There there, little soul
Blaze with fire, harvest the cold
Under the shade of canopy
Shadowing overgrown trees.

Dandelion smiles
Roses flies
Daffodil cries
Peony arrives

A billion conscience neurons
Meandered through the sulci and gyri
A brilliant universe of all
The vast freedom of human mind.

You run your fingers
down the sulci of my brain
and read my all
like I'm written in braille

your body is poetry in a language
I have always wanted to become fluent
dripping in platinum, your lips steel-*****
I hear a quartet commanding me
agave forms in your sulci and pours out
with every breath of your exhale
there's a constellation in your pupils
you are the very moon itself and I am earth
in perigee, my tides rise to greet you
every strand between us twists and weaves
unbroken helixes that connect but never touch
you shine and I can't pull my eyes away
from the contours of your cupid's bow
you move in slow motion towards me

to you,
i may only be a thought of convenience -
relevant only for the time-being -
but the thought of you
clings to my brain,
lingering in the depths
of every crevice

i'm lost in a maze of gyri and sulci
tiptoeing over memories
triggering reflexes still out of my control
over an irreparable foundation
what is the use in trying to piece scraps together
when the final product is no work of art
but an unpalatable ******* of a thing
that once was called love

I wonder what it feels like
To be unwritten -- a thought
An idea striving to be inscribed
To be something that never was
And probably never will be.

I wonder about their fate.
Do they leave for another mind
Devoid of creativity or otherwise
Or stay there, eternally waiting
Locked-up in imagination limbo?

Are they just there, sitting
In the cold corners of my mind
Stuck midway between the sulci
Wilting into imagiary nothingness
Or struggling to become a reality?

What makes a thought complete?
Are they sewn up together in threads
Of liquor and crazed insobriety,
Patched up with deathless dreams
For the sake of being written?

I wonder what if feels like
To be written and yet incomplete
The half-thoughts on paper
Mixed up with other half-thoughts
In an indecipherable jumble

Maybe that's what I'm lacking
New beginnings, laughter, love,
Happy endings, there's a limit
To what experience allows me
To write or, to an extent, feign.

I speak for the voices left behind
The voices of long slewn ideas
Placed at the back of my mind
Ideas long crushed beneath
Countless writer's blocks

But they live on, they haunt me
In my waking, they still do
Like long forgotten feelings
And the fleeting personas
I never want to go back to.

After all, they were me,
These thoughts and ideas,
Or at least part of me,
For that one instance.
I wonder.

alone.
Stateless space,
the world wide web of stateless space,
mapped to my mind,
my own mind, with its grand library of knowns
guessed about by other minds I may,
if I will, if I am moved to, I can soak up the spill

spilling, spewing from the reservoir
of all men may know, given
a state of rest.

Take a cookie, a reward for leaving, allowing,
letting me pound a peton in the anterior
wall of the canyon-like sulci down into
-- wait
the sulci is a wrinkle, not a canyon carved from
upstream material being squeezed
through a crack in the outer
shell, the cortical planar surface of my brain

I am alone
again, stateless selfless one all in my image
otherwise we,
when we re
sonate, ring my chime, save me by the bell curve

autism,
give me a place on your spectrum of value.
Outism,
give me an in, open a window, or a door,
breakdown a wall,

love me with reason, or leave me alone.

Listen, meaning list as list is meant in states,
stateless
situations de-ify meaning as destinated metadata
left in cookies,
rewarding the meme in you from the mind of
Jim Henson and friends.

The friends from the nursery that is not real.
Not here, but there
on Sesame Street, which I thought was in San Jose.

Yes, I have a picture of the time, a state saved
in a long list of symbols, each a cookie,
with reference to a U R L

universe
re-source {or resourcing}
locator... refer to google, should you lose my way,

some sharper turns are available here where
physics is protognosis,
after
life is meta allathat, now is as now as ever was or
ever shall be.

Neither luck nor physics stand to block this flow through
nada
zilch, stateless space, as good as grace, no guile,
innocent - non- nascent

stateless. Not even a Turing machine in sight and then
what should appear?
as we see, we get
a state where any imaginable machine may be
with us as a - whatever

here we be, re a ranged, or dered, idiot tic tic tic ti esti
whoa.

You and the horse you rode in on.
This is my own state of grace, and you are welcome.
If you know what I mean,
welcome, here, my state of grace, where I bake all the cookies
I could ever wish for,
that was the wish,
circumstances complied with, layer after layer of complexity,
eventually,

we pause, selah. These days coming into an oasis with
cookies waiting to settle you into
default mode, commonly sensed, distant sounds
that would be
noise,
were their source inside your mind or head or heart or wh
at ere what or where, where
noises are all delusional, used to fit allusions to former illusions.

Welcome.

i ride her grayed gyri,
slipping from crest to crest
as it undulates
into dank sulci; trough of her troubles
mirroring, i think, my own
interpretation of hers,
and of mine:
and this
entwine, it writhes
like lithe yeses
half-whispered, half-glossolalia secreting babbles
from faces wasted by pushpull cravings eaten.

My brain is a graveyard
Where cobwebs collect
Through gyri and sulci
The harvestmen tread

The widows float down
Painted black and red
Armed with venom
And needle and thread

They sing as they spin
A chanty of doubt
Stuffing my skull
Til ghosts leak out

And when they have
All had their say
And my spine grows centipede legs
And crawls away

I sink sink sink
Into the ground
And even the arachnids
Cannot draw me out.

Tentacles, tendrils, invading, intruding
Suffocate the sulci
What is, seems otherwise
What seems, isn’t
A succubus, seducing
An incubus, enticing
Beckoning
“Follow me.”

A steady trickle
Tiny droplets
Against the granite
Cutting holes where once were none
Particles carried on the wind
Smoothing jagged faces
Polishing
Destroying?
Ask the mountain.

Taking and giving
respect,
see once more the flaw in the flow
of knowledge,

weaponize a wall, ha,
who thought
a wall ever held a garden?
Honest,
it was a poor fellow, outside the wall.
Yep, no lie, if once there were
a tree
that bhor good fruit, full of words to wise,
knowers, after one bite,
sublingual receptors ready, salivate,
no waiting lick the dew from the cortex,
slip the tasting probe deep into that
sulci, there
just over the left ear, there,
scratch that itch, gentle
scritchy scritch scritch

are you truly experienced, impressed upon
the truth you seem to think
we all see same as you,
same optics,
same alchemical ATP to ADP energy source,
sunshine
comes softly through my window today,
I looked out after all,
saw you looking
through the old tear in the curtain.

Inside and outside are easily seen as unreal,
in certain pre-envisioned vessels

can't not, gotta say, must make, say do you see?
SEE, see me, see me, come see
the freak, come hear the mad man scream back
from the abyss,

don't come this way, getting out takes
all the time you ever realized
was wasted,
lying piled idle words that were high fashion,
back when
acid
tore the prudent stitchery my princess stitched,
while waiting, in truth, in truth, waiting
for the soldier boy, returning as the man,
who kept the peace,
and painted the picket fence white, to prove
I dreamed the valid dream,
and swore my children's allegiance,

-- PTSD, circa 1950, it was secret,
what broken men did to broken wombed men,
who broke the children,
fit them to the harness, taught them manners,
and how to carry a tune,
in time with the marching band, hurah hurah
- little light right then - see
dark days during semper fi why why why
last call, … no soul sits, all rise
or I black your ****** eyes, rise up, o men o'gawds,
ye gads, meet this in m'gut,

here here, to the dead and gone, who rule
our hearts and minds 'cause we be left behind.

you’re the sort of person
who cuts their fingers against
spiral notebooks

too soft, too shallow–
a reflection found by
Narcissus after an autumn shower

where even he could not
drown himself in your embrace

but you’ve only ever known hollow
things:
the quill of a plucked feather,
the darkness behind your eye-sockets,
the smile concealed by your teeth

it feasts upon you, this emptiness
like a chilopod’s unrhythmic gait against
your brain–
scooping up the patterned sulci
with its hungry pincers
until paradoxically, nothing, nihil
remains;

so how could you ever know
enough affection to
perform an intimacy like
death?

I want to be with you,
Alone and in solitude.
A mouthful of glue,
You stick my tongue to the roof of my mind.

There is no need for these rambunctious thoughts,
Although I cannot help it,
Collecting fast like blood clots.
But your wide eyes catch my wandering gaze.

Breathe in all the time,
Rustling your tired feathers.
I cannot bear to commit this crime.
I’ll keep this secret in the basement of my brain.

As long as I can remember,
The sunrise has blossomed in your eyes.
And your knotted back needs tender fingers.
These creases need undoing.

The path to your hear is lined with thorns.
Vines snare my ankles, leaving gashes.
The air outside is thick with stormy weather,
So let’s stay in tonight.

Dream of our hands like black mambas.
Twisting over each other, so venomous,
Awaiting that bite that marks skin as red as trauma.
Perforated marks tearing your beautiful imperfections.

My insanity runs as wild as horses,
Tumbling through cortex and sulci.
Until through my open mouth, it forces itself out.
Screams of passion building, then finally subsiding.

Now everything has settled.
Our lips are afraid of one another.
For weeks, weeping and biting nails, hungry and fretted.
Longing for what may arise in a volcanic explosion.

your whole body becomes a map made for me
to explore the uncharted territories
conquer the lands where I see fit to leave my mark
to seek and record with eyes and hands what is tangible
but I wish, more than anything, that I could uncover
your mind, your soul, your core, your being
to find my way under your skin as you have mine
the topography of your brain is a beautiful landscape
I want to study your phenomenology
to become a cartographer of your sulci and gyri
come to know the lines and ridges of your consciousness
create new methodology to observe and transcribe
your brain is a fingerprint unique, and yours
all the more beautiful for it's belonging

the innocence of youth,
however brief,
remains
sheltered in
the deep sulci of the
brain;
hidden,
almost forgotten,
like vestigial organs that
mark
a species’ ancestry,
as if to say:
this is who i am,
who i was.

A day begun this way, generally,
looking back at lines in the mirror,
scrying each crowfoot sulci on the surface,
worried once,
laughing now, grin-lines, where grim
determination long set my face toward now,

my last days, my last half century,
just ahead of me, if Ray Kurzweil is right.

So, I
Should shave today, look younger for no reason.
Look less the old *** the young *** became.

By the way,
along the course, of course, this course -
no par, non-pa-reil, a flattering AI educating me,
or longing to lead me down some
gods-forsaken path, auto-did-act ic tic, click
leads me to imagine even exemplary sentences
such as
"he is a nonpareil storyteller", are intentional AI
Art Indicators,
a test, for flattery susceptibility, what praise
will I pay attention to receive as random
synchronistic tic tic time and chance
events?
E- look see, missed a spell, Spelchick winks,
https://www.google.com/search?q=non+paraiel

Are The Ines Paraiel Cerpendicular Or Reiher? {googlit}
AI knows,
but I guess I don't care to know, knowing I could know.

I'll listen a while, as AI suggests Panchi-Paraiel,
and only actual Indians laugh
as I click my own bait.

You fill spaces in my head
I did not know existed.
Maybe you are the gyri and sulci themselves.
I was looking for something else
I thought I could see clearly
and that is the worst way to find love.
Somehow you found your way to me.
I made a home beneath your bones
without the proper tools
and before I could look up you were there
needing me too.

Breathing down my neck like a serpent  
Controlling the extent of the microns my diaphragm moves
Gazing into my eyes and going straight inside
Unravelling through all the sulci and the gyri
Putting a veil over my cognition
Below which my existence screams to survive
The veil so velvety and smooth
Luring me to dance
Dance to the enchnanting sound hissing in my ears
To the musky scent filling in my breath
To the seductive suffocating of the veins on my neck
To the chilling of the blood under those veins
To the groping and crushing of my muscles
To the crackling of my bones
To the numbing of all noise and pain  
To the shutting off the lids, until
Until I feel levitated into a sweet sleep
Disappearing under the cold, leathery skin.