Ego, Shadow, Self.

Your goal
is to do

what you shouldn’t,

say all
you wouldn’t,

collect, integrate
all ingredients,
be the infinite,
truly awesome: all

you swear
you are not.

Building Upon Echoes.

All echoes
of automatic thoughts
serve

as subliminal suggestions,
incantations, triggered

by your
circumstantial ritual,
blossoming

the same old story
again and again.

Without sacrificing
your empathy
and intelligence:

be brave.

Try a different story.
One glowing,
but which you’ve never

truly embodied.

King Shit.

You are the turd
birthed, landing

bullseye
on the throne:

King Shit, I guess.

Before and above,
far, far, far enough:

the kissy spit
of this sphincter
ends in an epic sigh.

Released. Excavated.
Free from assholes,
you are.

So am I.

What Dirt Tastes Like.

Wars were fought,
battles waged,
though no one
ever really won.

Wastelands
became junkyards
swallowed by sand.

One faction
descended deep
underground,

the other
prowled the land,
ever-hungry
for lost souls,

all

undeniably alien
even in their
homeland.

Flashback

to the seed
from which
this ultimately
blossomed…

You got me,
motherfucker, so
you got me.

Congrats.
Recycling sucks.

So why
this suicidal species
investing
in a high civilization
on its last leg?

After the peek:
immediate, intimate
contact
with the source of gravity.

I remember this story.
What dirt tastes like.

I know how it ends.

Do you really expect me
to endure it all again?

Tell me why.

Collect & Piece Together.

Drink from the flask
offered by the guided hand

to wash down the pills
you were coerced
into popping
in the former room.

Step into darkness
like a flailing goon.

Addicted to rhythm.
Slave to their patterns.
So hypnotized, entranced.

Focus on this.
Balance.

Accept the face
revealed in sneak peaks
in this surreal land
of evolving, dissolving

masks of the true,
hidden soul.

Collect and piece
together
your hidden, origional
face, worm

your serpentine
roots there…

Source of Sensory Chauvinism.

No umwelt has primacy.
All are connected
by the fundamental ground.

Rule by no reality tunnel.
Interactive independence
will bring the world around.

Reality: always, at least
once removed.

On the Ephemeral Cotton Candy of Racoons.

Everything:

so ephemeral.
Like that video
of the racoon

grabbing
the glob, the cloud
of cotton candy
and dunking
it into the water to wash,

only to witness
its disappearance…

As he held
it,
to not it,

between his achingly
eager, open hands,
in his heart he knew
it was

gone:

yet the little bugger
continued to frantically
search for it.

Aliens in PA.

She?
She came to me.
Make no mistake.
Fled

from a community
residing in Philadelphia.

Dead society.
Dead world.
All-Too-Human
desperation…

Hadn’t gotten far, yet
in my arms I
found a temporary reprieve
and, sad as it may be
in my estimation,

evidently, that’s just
how it was meant to be.

Nauseating,
what I’m being told.

That only
these special individuals
carve, pave
the way, motives seeded

by intelligences so
many star systems away.

Literary Antidepressant.

Bookmarked, then halted
my descent, diving
into a literary antidepressant,

hoping we’re not
so fucked up, so hopelessly
doomed, after all.

Help me, my pants
seem
to be snagged,
stuck
on the fence.

Sure,
a part of me
wants to believe,

still, all I am needs
to know.

And faith won’t cut it.

All around: I need
to know.

Into the Void Of.

This is the last of us.
We have to hold on.

Letting go
was once necessary.
Now this grip
is all about survival,

for extinction looms.

Another file
in the cabinet
of the forgotten,

another grain
in the desert
of amnesia.

I ache
for memories
to right my present path
before I’m lost

in free fall,

before I delve

into the void of…