Reach from the dream and touch dark matter.
Your doubts become apparent once the smoke clears your morning hygiene ritual.
The mirror lies because you forced it to.
Now live with your second hand smoke.
Position yourself between the winter triangles and devour
The Mississippi crossroads where wake up clocks become crackling sounds
Aromas and devouring weapons enable rhythms to translate last experiences.
Feed your paranoia. Suspicions escape into an internal modality. Press the invisibility
button and act accordingly.
A discord throws the world off balance while you extend your sensory tentacles, because you can’t see you yet, you are out to get you.
Slither through a labyrinth of confusion.
Constriction. Permission. Submission. Decision.
Position yourself to act, while your every move is narrated by Morgan Freeman.
Free man is an illusion so says the one who created yours.
You live long enough to see but not long enough to transmit the answers in a language that’s legible.
Frighten are the ones who permit information to enter the small door of shadows.
Shadows make great bedfellows if only we would turn off the lights to see ourselves.
You find yourself in an empty room full of things you wish disappear.
Settle into a space we hold sacred.
It becomes your religion.
You dig for answers.
You write your wrongs.
You develop when nothing develops.
It becomes the beast. It now has life and there’s nothing you can do.
You can’t rear it as a child.
You can’t fix the machine.
It got ghost.
It is its own doing and is open to the mentions of worldly isms, categories and labels.
It is angry while smiling, confusing whomever it surrounds.
There is no clarity.
You’re outside its projection.
Projects…cubicles…boxes.. square prisons.
Geometric shapes and prisms manipulated by you and your shadow.
Your own doing.
You are to blame.
How can you not be involved, becoming an assailant to its form?
Formations. Happy this go round for someone has picked up your tab.
Whew… deep appreciation.
You sketch out a way to exist again, and again, and again.
Always on the cliff, but never jumping.
Just walking to the edge to get a peek, a glimpse.
Look how far down it really is and
“OH SNAP, I can see tomorrow’s echoes down there!” “there” “there” “there”
You Michael Jack back track from where you came.
You repeat and become a cliché never knowing what you’ve become.
You are wearing a pair of dock pants in your favorite color that fit rather well.