Friday, October 30, 2015

the dream, this one thing being
of the past, the far far away
long-time ago made up bullshit, the
oneday you'll look back at this andlaugh...

those poplars we were once hanged from are
paled with death now; let them turn
as white as the white oak in its shadows path; hi.

i see with feelings but not
empathy accompanying. got all sorts
of problems. i wish i may. i wish
i fucking might.

you are not me- tangible, you are a realthing,
and i have left of myself once-umbilical

now barely a thread- tracing
me back to illuminations. i don't want

to be the weakling in munch's scream
uncalmed in gravity. but you work with
what you've got.

you are not me. you are practically
not even you. you do not see how

i see-in-feel. what do you see in? what is it
that confuses you? is it all

one general big mystery? don't you know
each part's microscope-slide?

you are not me? i'm jealous of you.

it doesn't take a miracle for one
to resist shitting themselves over everything

even after receiving the cure
they were so priviledged to receive.

without the mean-streak
i would get
lost in space until
exploded still walking on water

which i could probably live without.

six to eight glasses a day, everyday,
nonetheless.