when i am thinking
i think to myself –
self thinks to self
till one wakes
up and is the one
self again and
again thinking and
selfing multitudes
and unto infinity
selfs till one wakes
alone and is the one
self unto death…]
fall asleep
with two papercut
hands in bags
of rock salt only
to dream the ancient
elf city of el
dorado smoldered
golden-red like the tip
of the pilot light
under your only oven
.
live awake
with two eyes inside
holes in my facebone
only to see
the present tense
moldering around
me like snow like
so many gel caps
tossed in the volcano
loneli-
is waiting eve-
though seasons rive like scal-
acriss-cross our touch memori-
for cont-
the death of a loved one
the birth of my child
the horror of war
the ecstasy of faith
these are four waystones
i may never reach
yet my inexperience
with each has been
used to crush me
(like granite monoliths)
into the shame of naïvete
these are four waystones
i no longer care to pass by
it is right to be held
responsible for the actions
we take in dreams
.
it feels right to be held
responsible for the actions
of completely different people
.
it is right to be held
responsible for the actions
we take in daydreams
.
it feels right to be held
responsible for the inactions
we take while dreaming
watched from
the inside out
reckoned by
algorithms
measured and
sorted by number
not in a novel
in a building
in an instant
for instance you
are falling in
love and your ads
are showing it
there’s dope
in your feed
and your plastic
feels hot
standing outside
when streetlights
turn on, it was
beautiful all
along outside,
where i could
have had a day –
maybe died –
and yet if fate
is a real thing,
there are moments
where you are
invincible where-
ever you breathe
an unfortunate
defect in angels
is apocalypse
fantasies: raptures
and the final war
the saddest harp
to stop sounding
“does it sound sad?”
…
silent, and still
inanimate
hollow. dead. wood.
…
when no one plays
sound fills the air
(the sound of air)
…
moving always
all things moving
in measured time
In the blinding eye
Of each asterikyklone
Stares the pupil:
A bindu not as small as “just”
For it has a complex gist
Instead a new navel
(New a long while, too)
With appropriate umbilicals
Winding behind one
You see the aperture
Of every eye appears
To hold a black hole
Yet beyond these lenses
Brilliant velds forever
⨀ 