a semi key

Balance.
Repetition.
Composition.
Mirrors.

Most of all, the world is a place where parts of wholes are described
within an overarching paradigm of clarity and accuracy
the context in which makes possible an underlying
sense of the way it all fits together
despite our collective tendency not to conceive of it as such.

But then again, the world without end is a place where souls are combined,
but with an overbearing feeling of disparity and disorderliness.
To ignore it is impossible without getting oneself into all of kinds of trouble,
despite one’s best intentions to not get entangled with it so much.

Meanwhile,
the statues are bleeding green.
And others are saying things much better than we ever could,
as the quiet become suddenly verbose.

And the hail’s heralding the size of nickels.
And the street corners are gnashing together like the gears
inside the head of some omniscient engineer.
And downward flows the garnered wisdom that has never died.

Then finally,
we opened the box, we couldn’t find any rules.
Our heads were reeling with the glitter of possibilities, contingencies…
but with ever increasing faith we decided to go ahead and just ignore them,
despite tremendous pressure to capitulate with fate.

So instead, we went ahead to fabricate a catalog
of unstable elements and modicums and particles,
with not zero total strangeness for brief moments which amount
to nothing more than tiny fragments of a finger snap.

Meanwhile,
we’re furiously seeing green.
And the map has started tearing along its creases due to overuse…
when in reality it’s never needed folds.

And the air’s withholding the sound of its wellspring.
And our heads approach a density reminiscent of the infinite productivity of the center of the sun.

And therein lies the garnered wisdom that has never died.

Expectation
leads to disappointment. If you don’t expect something big huge and exciting…
usually, uh…
I dunno,
just not, uh, yeah…

i think of myself elsewhere, freezing and
i am so warm here right here on the slope of
a microwave in a television

(whos?)    your smile
around and round,

trying to distill the

earl grey in my pocket,
washing machine in mind,
i know: around.

still,

i can’t really be
still when every sidewalk is a
slippery
such-seeming
not-here.

paradox and symmetry awkwardly divide my hemispheres,
foreign businessmen disputing fallow fields
shuffle feet (fingernails)

loosen ties (tongues (wag))

cold in my mind when i think of all the small smallness and i’m small, sucking the first things that come near my forehead.

the being here and not
-that i want to take a kerchief and turn it into a kernel of
candy corn.

allow me to explain my inability to explain myself:

the music suddenly stops and my mouth opens and my eyes close and my blank blinks and my white opens

the blank pieces of paper near me…
will be the day that every day is tomorrow!
to think of it, i should brush my teeth…

and you aren’t reading this anymore, probably

i am so terrified that my fingers

and the gesture into a pile of thumbs

the seeming closeness and when

what if the eternal

countrysides beget conturysides

with me a simple drop of wine among

the fingers

solemn hopscotch speak-itself:
reverberate locomotion
(don’t look(you haven’t been))

sufflate incense
insist nonsense
abandon substrate
embrace hence-been

you leave! you are gone from time to time
and where are you. i feel a straight line
wishing “am” and
just so you can ride a rollercoaster?

fuck your irresponsible castle of castles,

bastard backmasking holyspeak,

endless pointless addess,

red, bleeding transmammal,

meaningless, screaming organ.

can’t get past this thought.
this moment seems to last

for eyes, for milk, the nearest
windowsill (if i put my fingers

through i can feel a seatbelt)

secondream surrenders to
contours. with you, forever

seems to lie down. can i
lie down? i can downright

lie to you if i don’t want to
bother you.

consciousness teasing me all day,
how you can know so much and be so
confused…

how can you know so much and be so confused!
what makes you feel good. what makes good feel so
confused. you be so much what you be, but being
never predefined, it’s hard to say exactly
anything.

the wide open space and
reluctance to say what.

the not-thing…

ends up being a thing and so on, la la la
“the form of a form”

godel, cretian liar!
overexamine meesly pens-
ivities, minor actions,

“inscrutable, impossible”

myself,
mysle    
myls
mly
lm

l

—-

it’s too hot. it’s so cold.
messy messy never-knowing
overflowing,
(to the left and
the inside of me so
rotating,)
to have gotten here now? and

how.