in doubt

I'm tired of the irony
when I feel most drawn outwards by the wonder of this world
that's when my extremities feel the coldest
and every breath seems to carry away a little of me on the night air.

I feel less of a human being
and more of a sensory organ,
just moving through the winds
sensitive to light
curling up at the first sign of danger,
vibrant and frightened.
And my fear is my last tie to the world at these times
If I could push aside that final turnstile,
and roll onto the slick white floors of the wider universe
bereft of human ties
I could no longer be caught in this cycle of alternate insularity and longing.

I could move through the wide caverns,
swim through the waves of turquoise foam
lick the candied sunlight
and walk on the untouched sands where no voices speak.
There is a place where the imagination is no longer confined to the far-fetched reaches within,
but where consciousness merges with the broken standards and rules
of the world beyond.
There are days like this. When I don't feel human.
But I am of rock, and water, and fire, and air.

पोस्टमन रिंग्स nice

a few moments of megalomania are allowed per fiscal year,
some scented candelabras
and some herbal therapies for your washed up dogs tired of old routines.
Then comes the vacation in cabo.
Then the perfunctory scrape with serpents of the deep.
Then rest. Stop.

Dreaming and scheming
leaning on the future for sunshine and
receiving brine in a cup on your doorstep today
or acid wash down your throat at your cynic-fest by the watercooler
bros before you can touch your toes at 80, before you're dead you realize that you should have breathed deeper at 40.
Poor you. Sue your aunt and uncle and then bewail the lack of family values.
Bill O' Rightsey, suck on a falafel.
Winged beast of anger and froth do yo freakin' wurst.

james's's'statute

,mahg9267://

gelf melding, never a ferret
shakes trees under the writing of unmemorable moments
still spine ponder oh, so porcupine damage

Trigger Capri

liver, happening!
this mask is happier than a papoose set wild on a campstove ramp running straight into labor day. "that's a latrine!" but it was too late. the oats hath festered, as the mane whistled windward and backs were turned to the group warning. whispers rippled through the myriad of sectional couches, braziers, and hamstrings (novice attachment), not to mention great wafting chortles of joy streaming up through the grate of never-the-less efforts. always proper, always consumers. the moon cycle makes me horny. so does a good fish taco, but let's stick to the chapter at hand: mumu, a historical perspective. this lectures in massive duality. pensive socks. ripping corpse. a ball breaker.