in my
mind is a maze.
and in that maze is a
minotaur. and in his mind is
a maze.
and in
that maze is a bad minotaur.
and inside his mind is
the color white.
just white.
minotaur
Leave a reply
Labyrinthine
Out curls
Serpentine smoke
Into a Byzantine midnight
.
I can’t read these heiroglyphs
I carved for myself on the walls
Of my memory
My fingers pass along the grooves in the stone
But unread and unknown,
I keep a secret from myself
.
My memory holds a door with no handle,
A box with no locks,
A moldy book with wilting pages
And an hourglass with one grain of sand inside
For telling the present moment
.
Since my memory can’t photograph
It paints with watercolor
On a canvas of sand. I can make out
Serpentine smoke curling into a Byzantine lung
.
I can’t read these Arabic numerals.
These envelopes have dried my sandy tongue.
I can’t focus
At this oxygen bar, too many Cheshire cats smiling
At this hookah lounge
At the bottom of the dark, green wine bottle
Of my memory
.
My memory curls out
Like serpentine smoke
Into a Byzantine midnight
non
exiled,
denamed, unknown,
no longer in the mind
of god, re: obliterated,
a void,
a spanse,
defaced, unlabeled, unmasked, peeled
completely down to the
very center
peel where
Panic Attack
the fear
is a clear aether:
cloying, clinging
like trapped vapor pressing
on my heart with twelve oceans
(thoughts: blocks)
then grains of peppery static
then stardust: fuzzy logic
my words blur and buzz
like a numb arm on a neon light
sweat evaporates
from me like a desert mirage –
my brain a red anthill,
my mouth breathing instead of my lungs
“my apologies, i just need one
chronic minute, one brief lifetime
for this to pass over”
the trees’
fingertips dance
like dark green spanish skirts,
like a ripple of millipede
legs: breeze
Spine
To feel
Threaded-up by
Gut and needle. To chew
Bitter-root like a Tylenol.
Organs
Failing,
And a memory too soft
For sharp telling-of-tales.
To feel old, but
Want more
Small Signs
Couldn’t
I foresee this
Unwanted possession
Of a colossus? Alas, the
Small signs
Never
Connected from one to other:
The smoke, nor the lightning,
Nor the silence,
Nor dreams
Anvil
On an eggshell,
One-sand-grain hourglass,
And a God-sized marble that keeps
Us close
Bonfire House
A sestina:
Green grass is lengthening round
The Camelot Apartments. Make a left
At the corner store; oh and don’t forget
The Rolling Rocks; don’t forget that green grass;
There’s gonna be good people at the house
Show: Make three left turns till Elm Circle
⨀
We each sat in the circle.
An orange ball glowed hot. Pedro rolled round
Resin in his fingers at the guys’ house.
The chicks complained about the taste and left.
An orange ball burnt out. “Left for real grass.”
And we should, too, or girls: We can forget
⨀
The apartment pool forgets
Nothing, and I swim alone in circles.
A Marlboro 27, some grass
Clippings, a beetle, and my thoughts float round
(If I ever touch down) there’s green glass left
On the pool floor: Tread water till the house.
⨀
Orange moon at Bonfire House
Melodies drift like we ought to forget
Them. Earth…
View original post 138 more words
god’s brain
lacks a reward
center: it moves over
the waters, numbering without
counting.
god’s brain
lacks its reward center and clicks
dispassionately past
The Miracle.
god’s brain
sleep-watches
and in morning
walks passionately past
as an interdimensional
monad,
and snail
shell hurricanes faze not the brain
of humble almighty
mister god man
who wants
nothing
⨀ 