The sum of everything else outside of
the permeable membrane that is myself-
does it equate to who I am?
Or does the view of any who don’t agree
with the lemon and honey in my coffee?
And with a desire to ensue too much
my mouth gapes open in a vocal-less scream
from a reoccurring dream, pervading reality.
While piles and piles of cluttered
knowledge collected since existence,
become buried in the landfill of my mind.
Engulfed by an excess of everything
in this material age. It’s just a matter of time
till mine is lost or thrown away.
What is tomorrow if not for today?
My ephemera, like the flame of a candle
which burns and flickers in the night
as the stars do. Even those holes in the black velvet
have a volatile core, susceptible to their own
gravity and liable to spontaneously combust;
an implosion outwardly creating proximate damage.
I am not immortal, and do not wish to be
it seems, though, that neither does my species.
On the cathedral's roof is a desert where I paint
naked on occasion. Sky's roots grow from cloudy objectives
with nimbus nipples. Eyes link to reality with as much of a blur as
memories themselves. Sticky surface gathers sand, under a
shade tree, after a kiss, typical robot tentacles
emerge from my abdomen, causing convulsions.
Rubber lady, why is your hand in the hippopotamus’ eye?
I leaped from up high but was caught by the spider’s web.
The elderly man walking through forest trees is my best friend
explaining the peaceful path to Nara on a white board with
interesting trinkets inside. As the hedge turns red and engulfs me
death becomes another answer to the question of life.
To question life, in the loss of an instinctual fear.
The absence of sight, indicating affection for the moon
feeling female, forever tainted by lust, with cheese between my legs.
And you, with almost vegan seeds, inside
of little bottle cap planter babies. We were
throwing them, stomping them, breaking them in our bare hands
hyperaware of the things that make us human.
Where are the cages of kidnapped giants now?
On the back of the centipede cow; coming over the hill
and passing for some time, as the little drone rests
above my head and playfully licks my hairline.
A portal to my imagination
Luring me through the threshold of my own thought.
Sometimes grasping me, seducing me,
staring directly into my eyes and
screaming a sensation.
Not just paint on a substrate,
but a compilation of marks
charged by human intent.
With the ability to reveal whatever persona I declare
reflecting an image of my own projection.
The language of color, line, and texture.
Spoken so clearly to me
though she has translated something else
and he hasn’t bothered to listen.
This flat universe was born by
a pursuit of interest.
The preservation of a thought moment
capturing what it means to be human.
If you were able to separate
viewing it as a single point
that point would be called art.
The painting on my wall is art.
Passing pastures of green, spotted with cows
where magic mushrooms pop from manure,
roadside wildflowers grow pink, purple, and yellow
while their roots permeate the aquifer below.
The clock on my wrist tick ticks
as my thoughts unravel,
unraveling as my tires turn. For a universe
as interconnected as my crochet sweater,
it seems rather difficult to feel cozy inside.
Outside brings better weather atop the one
and only town hill. There the sun rests royal
every evening dressed in clouds of clementine.
Standard sinkholes serve as inverted jungle gyms
for kids like I was; climbing rocks, roots, trunks, and branches
with the bark of a bugs back, being careful to keep balance.
Partnering in crime with nature was living
on the edge back then. Time passes and
the sun slips down from his throne to sleep.
The two lanes bend and wind round.
I pullover once his indigo blanket is draped overhead.
I lie down on the warm engine hood
while crickets and cicadas sound in my ear.
They whisper secrets of comfort as I gaze up
to the astronomical eyes of homey night skies.
Awakening to an unusual bed
A distinguishing scent to the unfamiliar sheets,
specifically chosen to coordinate with the four walls
surrounding me in this particular ephemeral existence.
Living as a foreigner, fending for survival.
Through immersion quickly discovering
each culture comprising a certain complexity.
So easily lost in the distended dystopia.
Upon apprehension of the convolution
to be blinded by overexposure.
Uprooted and wilting fast
Overwhelmed by the unknown.
In transit, triggering thoughts
captivated in emotional locomotion.
Each experience posing a new question
Why am I here?
How did I get here?
I believed in a specific God then,
he rarely returned any answers.
Finally finding contentment in the confusion.
Focusing on the finite.
Learning to smile at the small simplicities.
If only to turn the wheel once more;
If only to ascertain how little I understand.
Mostly in a state of existential crisis, wrapped up in my own mind and in the thoughts that weigh heavy through cyclical depression. Thoughts consisting of anxiety and unhappiness about school, society, humanity, the world, the waste, the ignorance, and my own inner conflicts of knowledge and memory cause constant yearning to exist in a more positive and productive state. My writing through this time has reflected the tendencies I have to think too much, my resolution being through doing art and through connecting with nature. My writing process is usually different every time. Sometimes by compiling small phrases I’ve jotted down in my notes, other times by writing stream of consciousness, and others are more about what word sounds intrigue me. I have found that my writing reads best when I utilize all of these tactics together.