Patrimony (Sun-Cycle in Review) 20.12.013

Bathed in a red light,
I am sitting on the bathroom floor
in a house that used to be your home.
I wear your ring on a fine chain around my neck.

On my finger, I wear another ring
to remind me to find my own home.

They think I am married.

Sitting on the bathroom floor
in what used to be our home,
I wear the ring you designed on a chain around my neck.
The old Pueblo man gave me the ring on my finger,

and I wear it to remind myself
that I must leave this place, and return home.

You are not yet re-married.

In one of the many houses I used to call home,
I partake as she used to: your love for her
on a fine chain around my neck: my love for the past
and hopes for the future encircling my finger

like a wedding band (from a dead Pueblo man),
while thoughts of a home abated still linger.

She is no longer married.

A year ago (tomorrow, tomorrow), the end of the world began.
I was laid bare (by my own hand), and we spent the Last Night together.
When the New Year began, so too did We-- and there was talk
of rings on fingers.  I was making my way to a home in the future;

and yet: here I sit, chain around my neck,
on cold tiles: some poor soul's former home.

I think I have arrived; I think I am married.

(You have never seen me in my red light.)

7.12.013 Ten-Year Tears, Particle Beauty

My skin is liquid.
I am part of the firmaments.
Solid matter vibrates, on
a subatomic level.
Levelheadedness
is a sin. Dance dance dance
dance dance. Patterns.

I feel like, every moment, I am at my own wedding.
To wed; verb; I am wedding.
I am wedding everything,
there is no longer Me, there is no longer
capitalization,
everything is equal and with punctuation,
to express waiting--

and i am at my wedding.
i am at my wedding.

15.11.013 "Ode to Ghosting"

Your secrets
are my treasures, my trinkets,
but I fear they may be my playthings:

toys to a toddler, who wants
what he wants simply
because it belongs to the Other Tot;

I fear I am the Only One--
and
I fear you are a figment.

I fear you are all I cannot have,
I fear
you are me, and

I fear I am the Only One.

All I seek is connection,
meaningful commiseration
and mutual elation,

and laughter unto the wee hours of the night.
All I want is your hand:
lined with years gone by;

skin like parchment,
fingers muscled finely, and
lover-ly words spoken

with a soft-and-reverent portent.
All I want is for you to be real
(I think I made you up),

and for you to flip a switch
(inside my head):
electric currents flowing philandrically,

tendril-ectric filaments unfurling--
making short (and non-existent)
the chilly distance between two holographic

human

(heavenly)

bodies.

All I want:
please, be my companion.
Walk with me through the Fire,

keep me tethered to the present;
let me be no God-ball, no
lens of mercies;

be no vase of acid,
but please:
remain thyself

forever-full of love--
and I promise your gestures will never flake off.
(I imagine you are so warm and human--

please, let it be so.)

Flagstaff, AZ 02.8.013

So here I am, in a hotel bathroom somewhere outside Flagstaff.

It's been four months, give or take.  I suppose the only thing that still bugs me is the fact that you're still in my head; the only thing that still bugs me is the fact that you are both the subject of and the driving force behind this journal entry.

(I have not journaled regularly in ages.)

And I suppose the reason you continue to persist as the object of my thoughts is because you were the one thing that made sense; because the very thing that made sense turned the world on its head-- without any reason to precede it or any consequence to come after-- and then left.

You disappeared.

You took a part of me with you.

You abused my trust.

I miss having faith in humanity as much as I miss the simultaneous drop in both heart rate and blood pressure upon feeling your embrace for the first time in a week.

You ran because I no longer made your heart beat faster; you miss the high.  I miss the stability.  You're a junkie; I'm seeking recovery-- I miss home.

Taos, NM 29.7.013

David proposed to Cheryl today.  That's all that needs to be said.  Somewhere, the wind blew-- and somewhere, the cicadas hummed, and somewhere and somewhere and somewhere. . .

On this trip, the thought that you could have-- or were supposed to have-- been here with me is both repetitive and invasive.  You were supposed to have marveled at the enormity and the very-real dimensions of the mountains (they are everywhere).  You were supposed to have experienced that same shortness of breath that I did on the ski lift, and at the top of the mountain: where the air was cold and fresh and the sun was warm on your shoulders (and mine).

You would have seen where I grew up: my old house, dilapidated and wonderful and still-inhabited, with other houses slowly encroaching.  You would have seen my tiny elementary school (Arroyo Seco), which is now a community center with the most pathetic and simple playground equipment (now unused) still outside, in the abandoned lot.

You would have seen all the artists and their wares-- artists who will soon have to give up their spaces to the next hopefuls attempting to capitalize (just get by) on a small tourist town.  The wares may never sell, but they are beautiful and expensive and filled with so much soul.

You would have seen and touched and walked inside the Earthships with me.

You would have disrobed as I did-- late at night, while the rest of the occupants slept in the shared house that we'd rented for the family reunion.

You would have watched-- and laughed, despite my irritation-- as I coerced the bang-maid's myriad pubic hairs down the drain and removed her one-piece bathing suit from the edge of the shared bathtub.

As the water in the tub rose, you'd have climbed in after me.  You would have held me close.

You would have looked into my eyes.  You would have seen the love in my face (mirroring all of everything I would have been seeing and feeling).

We wouldn't have had to speak.

Instead, here I am: I look into the mirror, and I see myself the way you used to.  And I know that that will never stop.  I am always going to see myself this way, because this is how I always wanted to be seen.  The tub fills behind me (hairs dutifully washed down the drain, the one-piece carefully hung on a towel rack), and I think of how like home this feels.

I can feel you disappearing.  And I know that when I leave tomorrow, I must do everything I can to come back.

Here, it doesn't hurt.  Here is the home that I've been missing since before you left.  Here, in this moment-- writing, on the bathroom rug, tub threatening to either overflow or wake the sleeping occupants (my family) of this shared and rented place; here, I have found a way forward.

Here, in this place, there is a window that looks out onto the open space of the future.

Here, there are the most beautiful skies.

Repetitive/Invasive 24.10.013

I am a collective of cells and flesh.

I am wired through with impulses Electric;
the cells
and the flesh
speak with one another

(across distances Infinite
and intraverseable--
yet I call This my thumb,
and This: my phallus;
and This is my arm
and This is my Heart--
This is my arm
This is my Heart--
and This is all a great lie)

by shooting
jolts of charged ions down paths
encased in a myelin sheathing;

but in my dystrophy I wonder:

am I cells and flesh;

am I blood and bone;

am I tissue and organ and muscle and ligament;

am I dead proteins

(arranged in such a manner
as to attract You,
the subjective Object of my momentary
Desire--across the way, moving towards me
amidst the rock-show music,
with mote-like notes falling on our ears,
and our faces

[turned Outwards towards one another, in
a Peacock-like display
of all our wildest fantasies
and most wily-and-cherished dreamsequences
involving long-lost love
found again
in the most Primal of mind-melding
places]);

spurting forth from follicles wedged

between skin cells;

am I a large nose;

am I rotting teeth;

am I uncircumcised penis;
scars white and purple;

freckles, and sun spots;

hypovolemia;

virus (viruses) that will never leave
my Body Immaculate--

or am I, perhaps, the interminable chatter

that occupies the indeterminately

large-or-small

space between

two Ears

two Eyes

Mouth and Basil Ganglia

Larynx and Medulla Oblongata
sinus passages

(labyrinth of bacteria and fluids and so many
green-tinged
childhood illnesses)

and long-since-fused fontanel?

What is the Mind?

What are my thoughts, and how
do they translate themselves
(so invisibly, so seamlessly)

into actuality; into realness; into a world

which seems to be so ruthlessly governed by a Categorical Imperative
and a Religious conviction
Hell-bent on homo-genization

(yet unaccepting of homo-sexualization
and everything that it entails

[love; a species being; a freeing
from the confines
of Space, and of
Time; a broadening of
our Human Minds 

{but, again: WHAT IS THE MIND?!}

and an acquisition of the knowledge of All
that is entailed by the symbolic term
of "selflessness"--
and a freeing from the confines
of Social Acceptance and normalcy;
individualism as a sect of the
capital-C
Community]) ;

fought and rallied against by Science

(another Great Evil if left unchecked, if
allowed to run rampant
in its capital-R
Righteousness, in its
Revelry in the falsehood that is the Religious Right

[which, by antithesis,
makes its own statements
no less Real
or informed by Insight]) ?

How do my thoughts affect
the transient world;
how do my thoughts connect
to the basal
mud-and-lightning
that is my ephemeral Body?

What am I?

How can I be?

What use is there in Naming?

How do the stars shine;
what semblance of realism is there in my momentary
(daily)
breathing--

and what does the beating of my Heart mean?

Nivek 17.10.013

I've never had the need
to ensconce myself
in smell;
in scent
most brown-pearlescent--

until You;
until
(the advent of)
You.

But there is very little
that is advantageous
about your absence.

Now I sit here, removed
from every memory
(or singular moment)
which has any
singular
thing to do with you

or your absence
or your love
or your presence
or your ill-expressed
and ever-forgotten
Essence.

I remember the way we used to laugh.
I remember the nights we spent--

locked in one another's arms,
or apart
(but always touching,
caressing,
loving).

I remember how good it always used to be.
And I know it's so much better now;
I know you were wholly
wrong for me.

You are not the Shining Knight;
you ride
no white steed.

You are a boy;
you fear;
you're weak.

06.9.010

Two fruit flies,
drowned
in the man's bathtub.

Gasping
no longer;
holding onto
one
another
for dear Life--

even
in Death.

Pinprick Lights 17.7.013

Rocking on our wraparound porch--
soapstone-cold whiskey in my hand--
I'd like to watch the lightning bugs dance.

Listening to the cicadas hum,
watching the dogs tussle outside--
tousling your hair in the day's failing light:

I want to watch the fireflies.

Hazard to Maxregard 29.09.013

At this exact moment, I am feeling morose in my solitude, in my singularity-- but I have met a new young man who is wonderful and with whom I feel both comfortable and intrigued beyond belief.

And I hope all is well with you, and I am drunk and am about to escape into that other world that lies between wakefulness and work in the morning, and I wish I could escape there forever-- where things make no sense, and where the deepest parts of our frail psyches manifest themselves in all their dark-and-lightness: where time is timeless, and love is just the same as it ever was, but perhaps more tangible, more real-and-fragile.

And I hope all is well.

21.9.013 For Jess

Though through forest greens-- through fields,
and streams-- I'd like to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Halfway to death, I scared
the poor girl: sharp intake of air;
piercing scream; an about-face whirl

to face, wide-eyed, her devious assailant:
bright eyes filled with ornery glee;
and mouth split in a mischievous curl.

I offered her sweets, sincerest apologies
(Kisses of Hershey's, I'mreallyreallysorry's)--
but no such contritious feats
would suffice.

What would be nice,
said she,

(swagger in her step,
boots so high-- forever that twinkling smile in her eye

[but not so today-- no, not this time])

would be,
of course,
"a poem."

And as I wandered the high desert
(homeland of sun and humming air),
four weeks came and went.

And though my journey was pleasant
(revived from light, though my skin stayed fair),
mountains took my breath; my words were spent.

. . . And so. . .

Though through evergreens-- through
mountainside streams-- I long to roam:
today, I must compose a poem.

Though I've lain me down upon the loam
in hopes to one day feel the embrace
of mycelium who call piney soil their home,

I know from the sap coursing in my veins
that the trees through which I wander alone
are where I will find my rightful place.

With desert winds to fill my lungs
and the burgeoning sun on my neck, my face--
I hear the cry of songs yet to be sung;
I feel the starkness of open space.

No longer will I incite such fear in your face--
I'd rather the twinkling eyes, the elated state
which we've all come to expect, all come to know
from the bearer of high-boots in our retail home.

. . . And so. . .

Though through mountain greens-- through
arroyos-once-streams, I did once roam--
today, I have composed a poem.

20.4.013 Shouting into the Void

The text (shouting into the Void): I'd like to see you so I can talk to you soon.  I've been doing fine, but today a lot of realizations went off in my head.  I know you barely have time to breathe, but the sooner I can see you the better.  You were the only man or boy I had been with who appreciated the way my brain worked, and it validated my feeling that there is in fact nothing wrong with me or my brain; you understood me.  When you said you didn't love me anymore, you took that away, and I think that's really what hurt so much.  It's like you took it all back.  This isn't me begging for us to get back together, but there's so much I need to tell you I just have to get it out of my head.  There's so much more.

The rest (whispering to myself, wishing the Void would respond): It's not that I don't think my brain works fine-- I do, and it just works in its own individual way.  I think that because of how my brain works, I notice things that other people might not.  So it's not my mind that's beautiful, it's the world that is beautiful, and I happen to notice different, less-noticed parts of it.  And I think you knew this about me-- and you appreciated me, and the odd way my brain worked, and not even my own mother can appreciate me in that way.  She thinks I need to fix my brain with drugs, and she thinks this because she has been taught to think she or her brain is defective/broken, and because she blames herself for everything and is so hard on herself, she thinks I am broken too and that I need to fix my abnormalities chemically-- instead of learning to love and embrace them.  I felt like you loved and embraced my abnormalities.   I thought you were so wonderful. And the thought that we can't teach these things to our children makes me cry-- and, in fact, I'm writing these things as I'm crying and because I'm crying-- because I need to get them out of my head and I can't talk to you.  I don't think love is a feeling or an emotion, Kevin.  And I don't believe there is such a thing as "true love" in the westernized, Walt Disney way we've been taught to believe in.  I believe love is something that just exists.  And if we are receptive enough, we can tap into love-- be it a force or a state of being.  Love is present in the inter-connectedness of everything.  I view love as another word for God, but not in that cheesy way some Protestant Pastor would ramble masturbatorily on about.  The human experience of love elicits feelings-- usually good feelings-- in individuals and couples.  I do not think your feelings changing was a totally valid reason for you abandoning me in our relationship.  And that's what you did; you abandoned me, you dumped me like I was garbage; you forgot that you told me I had a beautiful mind-- but I didn't.  And when I heard "my feelings changed," what I heard was "I don't love you anymore, I changed my mind and I don't think your mind works right, I never loved you or your mind to begin with."  I think you have confused love with emotion.  Love exists whether we tap into it or not, and I wanted to spend my life witnessing all the small miracles with you.  I wanted to hold hands as we witnessed the tiny miracles and the great tragedies and the small deaths and the yearly rebirth of Spring.  I wanted to have you by my side.  I wanted you to be my second set of eyes, my second heart.  I wanted us to help one another to feel and see and experience the things we couldn't feel or see or experience on our own.  And I wanted to get to know one another better in the process.

02.8.013 Shouting into the Void (from a casita in Taos, NM)

I hope you realize that I still want you in my life. I want to continue building something with you; I still want you to be my friend. I don't know what you want because your silence gives me no indication. We had something good, and I'd rather the nature of it change than it disappear completely. I may regret this in the morning and every day after-- if and when no reply comes-- but you're worth the effort it takes to put myself out there. Putting myself out there is never easy, and I'm usually disappointed, but my desire to form a connection with you has always won over-- and for a long time, I wasn't disappointed in the least. I'd fight to keep it ongoing, but not if I'm just shouting in the dark. I hope all is well with you. I miss you.

07.9.013 Rock-Show Solace (to Harlan)

There are rhythms
I cannot attune to.  There
are rhymes I cannot feel;
beings of suffrage I cannot hear.

There are levels of actualization
(of the greater Self,
a selfless idiosyncrasy which delves
between the Blood
and the Bone-- the sweetwater, and sourstone)

which I cannot ever achieve, unless
(with my whole-heart; with ev'ry fiber of my plastic Being)

I believe.

Lilliputian Self (Little Things in the Hero's Journey) 23.08.013

it's the littlest things, like
hearing her call him "David"
instead of "Dave."

it's the tiny things, like
the house I'm living in
being sold, along with my childhood.

it's the big things--
like my mother's tears,
and the way I know she must shake
as she tries to cry away
the reality of forever-lonesomeness
(self-afflicted, yet no less
painful; no less stricken).

it's the normal things--
like laundry, and lawn-cutting, and
the inevitable first frost
to signal Winter's onset--

that cause me to pause
and consider all that this life has
brought before my eyes;

all that I am, have been,
will be;

it's the normal things
that sometimes take me away from me.

these things pull me inside--
though I've fought the hero's fight,
and journeyed through valleys
and over the tallest of peaks

(combating the sun, shining in His
Zenith Pointe: radiating
stabbing waves of
carcinogenic engery down upon
[and through] me)

(fending off the moon's
perpetual stare: right through me,
and into Bone-- laying it all
bare [on the table], on
the manic monolithic plinth
of my frail psyche)

in search of the land
of milk, and of honey;

though here I stand, breathing
and always bleeding--
on the inside, or externally--

it's the little things.
it's the little things that weaken me.

11.5.013

i get high in the shower before bed.

i hear my father vacuuming at 10 PM,
when he would usually be passed out
on the couch, in front of a glowing screen.

he texts me at 10:25 that his on-again
off-again
(currently-off)
ex-girlfriend whose dogs we are watching

is coming to pick them up.
he thinks she is drunk.

(she has a problem hoarding and fostering animals she can't take care of, is jobless, and that's why we take care of her dogs-- and NOW she's drunk and on her way here.)

(to my home.)

(TO SPEND THE NIGHT.)

he sure can pick 'em.

hope the dogs like the floor you cleaned for them.
hope the second
enabled, drunk-driving woman in your life
likes the floor you vacuumed for her drunk ass.

Burberry Blues

brandy and lemon drops
guiding my dysthymia
as I sit, mired in your essence
(but my skin and its oils are not as yours,
and the memories come in course:
hemorrhage, clot, and so-forth);

i, too, am not you.

i waited a whole night for your replacement.
the neuron cluster-fires, pinprick blisses
coming to a head (eruption, erotic
maledictions whispered,
swift quiescence coming after)
promised to me
did not come.

these hopes, fantasies
and affect-less memories
have all abated.

in jars, i keep them:
like the coveted clover, numbered of four leaves;
like the child's butterfly, now sullen in glass-house solace, and without food;
like the mad-man's slips of paper (frenetic notes, filled with warnings to a future-self
who would never be there, and never was):

they have withered,
and grown brittle from too much sunlight,
and crumpled under Newton's weight,
and crumbled into dust.

as the dusted drops rake the palate,
so too does the brandy soothe
every tiny, burning cut.

te echo de menos, amor del pasado

17.5.013

there is an old darkness
pushing on me always, always.
there is an old darkness
that sits between me and everything.
there is an old sadness
that springs to life every time
i endeavor to attain happiness.

it's an age-old sickness
that keeps me from connecting.

i have an old friend
who will not let me go.
he keeps me here
out of fear, out of fear.

i need to tell this friend that i must go.
but he's the only friend who keeps returning;
he's the only friend who's stuck by;
the only one to check up on me,
from time to time

and with an ever-growing intensity.

i think i am married.

xx.02.013

The snow falls,
wind causing it to swarm
like locusts or fleas in chaotic panoply
beneath the lone streetlight--
standing upright in 2:30 A.M. light.

the sky is sick with the orange of parking lots.
percocet- and vicodin-addicted housewives sleep.
and yet the sullen flakes of ice and upper-atmospheric
misery
make me love you--
miss you--
all the more.

The cold Hell that starts with September
Marches ever onward through the wastelands of February.
And I miss you all the more.
In my dreams: a knocking upon the door.

29.3.013 "Clean Break"

I was entertaining the idea of not writing this letter at all, but since I'm having trouble sleeping I might as well do something useful with my time.

We are no longer dating. You don't love me; I don't love you. We are not going to get married; we aren't going to raise children together; we're not going to sleep side-by-side anymore, etc. I have accepted all that. Those are easy facts.

I haven't cried since the first night, and I'm not angry even though I want to be-- even though I deserve to be. I would like to cry at times, because crying is a wonderful cathartic release, but I am just not capable-- and that sucks. If that was all I had to deal with, I wouldn't be writing to you, and there would be no further communication between us so long as I had anything to say about the matter.

Let me reiterate that I want to be angry. I know, however, that anger won't reverse the two weeks of ignoring me (which I happily took in stride, both because you were improving your life through higher education and because-- in your physical absence-- there was the knowledge in my mind that you loved me and would be spending your life experiencing the world by my side).

Anger won't reverse the four-minute and twenty-second phone call that followed those two weeks of willful ignorance. Anger will not reverse the "clean break."

Anger hurts my stomach. Anger turns to panic (and it did), or to bitterness. I don't want to be bitter, especially over something as cheap as a phone call. I also don't want to be bitter (or angry) because I would like to remember you fondly-- because I would like to think that you loved me at all, much less in the same manner or intensity that I used to love you.

I don't think you loved me at all. I think maybe you wanted to, and you convinced yourself of it. When the initial excitement wore off (and it always does, yet this is usually the point when people leave), you stopped living in your head-- and you got scared or overwhelmed or apathetic or a million other things. I may be wrong (I wouldn't know, because you communicated none of these thoughts to me-- you held them in), but, regardless, all of that doesn't matter. I'm just making guesses and assumptions.

What does matter is that once you realized that your "feelings had changed," you couldn't do me the courtesy of having a sit-down talk. I get that you wanted a clean break-- we all do-- but this is not a clean break. By withdrawing yourself from the relationship, and with your decision to end it with a brief phone call, you deflected all of the grief, confusion, sadness, hurt, and anger onto me. You left me to deal with this alone.

Had we broken up in person, we might not have known what to do with ourselves, and I would have been just as upset as I was that first night after the phone call-- but I would have known that (although your feelings had changed or evaporated or were never there to begin with) you at least cared enough about me as a friend to be there for me as we ended the relationship the same way we started it: together. THAT, Kevin, is what hurts so much.

As a human being, I do not want to cause grief or harm in other human beings. Had you any compassion for me as a human being-- much less as a friend-- you would have taken a few hours out of your busy schedule to end this relationship the right way: a real "clean break," face-to-face. The way you managed the breakup showed me that there is something lacking in your character that I think I had ignored since we first became acquainted. I'm reminded of a time years ago when I had reached out for you on multiple occasions and received no response for months-- not until you e-mailed me, asking if I could edit a paper for you. And I was so idiotically desperate for any contact with you that-- despite my disgust that you only felt it necessary to befriend me or communicate to me when you needed something from me-- I did it anyways.

I allowed myself to forget this, and I shouldn't have. It was the first and one of the few displays of selfish behavior that came from you, and my forgetting about it, I feel, has led me here.

Please, Kevin-- if you don't have the time or energy to see one of your friends, TAKE A MOMENT to do him or her the courtesy of explaining that to them. We all have that same problem. It's discourteous to both yourself and others for you to divide your attention; devoting your whole self to the present moment and to the task or person at hand is the only way to live life. To do otherwise is unkind to yourself and unkind to those who want to see you, spend time with you, get to know you, or-- hell-- marry you. This is something I'm working on myself.

I realize you have been very stressed, and I feel for you-- it sucks. Some people may get offended if/when you tell them you don't have the time to devote to them, but if you explain that you want to give them your undivided attention (and if you truly mean it), the people who are really worth your time and energy will understand.

I thought I was one of those people, and I thought I understood where we were in our relationship.

I would like to salvage this and remain friends, but I'm leaving it up to you. I would still like to talk about the breakup, find out exactly what happened, and end this relationship with honesty and complete closure/disclosure. I also cannot remain friends with you if you continue this same pattern of avoidance, ignoring, and self-centered behavior.

I still miss you, and I'm going to miss you for a while. I'm going to miss that feeling of embracing you and feeling like I'm really breathing in for the first time in weeks. I'm going to miss that small feeling of home. Even though I know in both my head and my heart that I have a wonderful and varied life ahead of me, I'm still going to miss that period where everything seemed like it was finally going right. It will pass.

I don't want to have to say goodbye—I want(ed) to keep building on what we had—but I’m going to need more from you in the ways of honesty and communication. I wanted so much to be there for you when you were stressed; I wanted to carry some of the load (or at least some of the groceries), but like you said, you've grown used to doing things on your own, carrying your own weight, not sharing the load. Feelings aside, I just don't think you were ready for this relationship.

If for some reason you harbor any ill will towards me (possibly because of this letter), and if you think any or all of what I've written is complete crap, just please promise that you won't ever break up with someone this way ever again. Promise that you won't ever cause anyone so much unnecessary grief with such a careless, backhanded gesture—ever again. You're better than that, and any decent human being deserves better. I deserve better-- and the thought that you didn't seem to think so hurt me a lot.

My hope is that we'll both continue to grow—together or separately, as friends or former friends—and that someday we might both be able to look past this. Give Nimbus my love.

-J****

on the breast of your hooded jacket:
a single tear, shed in the hopes that
you'd feel some sadness in your heart
before moving on to another.

16.12.012

I want to touch you.  I remember the songs
we used to listen to;
I listen to them, and I am taken.

Backwards in time, my being flies to find
a younger self, an older version
of the feelings and thoughts occupying my mind.

In this state-- disillusioned
(neither Space, nor Time)--
persists ein perversion

of the self with which
I once identified;
I am Nowhere;

I am Nothing; I am
a fly on the wall of mein
propio cranium.

There's a soldier in my head who's willing to die
for the soul she believes
is real, is right.

the child who almost was xx.01.013

there is a future-self:
smiling at me, longing
to embrace me (and I, him)--

as skin embraces
muscle embraces
bone embraces marrow.

he has wrung blood from stone,
and beside him stands a man
more wonderful than

the infinite space between
uncountable pinpricks of light
(adorning the night with promises

that time, too, shall pass on
into oblivion
until nothing but Being remains).

beside his heart is a second:
beating in synchronicity.
between them is a future-daughter

or future-son who will bring
(raining down upon the barren land)
countless tears and the greatest of fears

and blessings more grave
than all the stars
and all of the Space

and all of the Time
in this thing our humble Human minds
perceive as the One World
(the Universe in its entirety)

Adder-riddled garden;
Ritalin-addled brains;
Adderall-enlightened
hipster bitchcakes go tripping, tromping through the rain.

the longer the time spent apart
and the greater the distance between:
the further I regress; the further I retreat.

the old patterns of thought repeat.
my mind is an abscess, though my fingers still bend
and my eyes still blink.