Hand-me-down molecules from
the millennia before last, each one
a prostration of the fourth dimension.
Intention is a world away from
perception. Just as you are
your own world, and I am mine.
Poetry, medicine, life, freewrites, moods, whatever catches my fancy. I'm a guinea pig, I'm a poet. I'm also permanently four years old.
"The only thing better than a best friend is a best friend with Chocolate."
Monday, April 23, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Sixth Sense
I stand beneath streetlights
agog with fireflies who do not
know fear in their passion for light.
Molten light snaking into my lungs
while I hear exasperated nuclei
in the throes of a nicotine death,
I feel the touch of a scream on my neck -
this must be the kiss of death.
And yet, tomorrow I shall awaken
to the taste of plasticine faith,
the ultimate proof of surrender.
Surrender, to the sixth sense
agog with fireflies who do not
know fear in their passion for light.
Molten light snaking into my lungs
while I hear exasperated nuclei
in the throes of a nicotine death,
I feel the touch of a scream on my neck -
this must be the kiss of death.
And yet, tomorrow I shall awaken
to the taste of plasticine faith,
the ultimate proof of surrender.
Surrender, to the sixth sense
Monday, April 2, 2007
Sunspot Scrolls
A resplendent shade of magic
like the first leaf of spring
tentative on the lips of a breeze.
Papyrus tales crumbling in the
ancient soil will someday form
a part of me.
Goblin fruit under marshmallow clouds
slowly filling my beer belly as I lie
on ochre grass somewhere on a sunspot.
Chartered underworld somewhere
in another galaxy stolen from the light
rules in forgetful command.
Dessicated wheatgrass on my
armlet laughs at the anklets on
the feet of a cloud, chains
extending beyond my imagination.
like the first leaf of spring
tentative on the lips of a breeze.
Papyrus tales crumbling in the
ancient soil will someday form
a part of me.
Goblin fruit under marshmallow clouds
slowly filling my beer belly as I lie
on ochre grass somewhere on a sunspot.
Chartered underworld somewhere
in another galaxy stolen from the light
rules in forgetful command.
Dessicated wheatgrass on my
armlet laughs at the anklets on
the feet of a cloud, chains
extending beyond my imagination.
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