Samsara

A fool, a philistine

And a marionette

Tied together with tension twine

Bent nerve endings

Welded and mended

Structural function

Composite contentment

Spur the sentient chordophones

Strung up and cobbled

With chromosomes

Dining out on dopamine

These fancy little figurines

Who dance with dice

The size of life &

Pave their ways with

Broken things

Found poem

Flores?

Flores.

Eu gosto de flores.

I’d be lost

Without my friends

Especially the ones

I’ve never met.

Wavelength like string

Sanctuary on the edge

My brain does not

Feel feebler these days

immediate haiku

Crisp red Flower sails

Past noontide moon’s reflection

Rippling smooth surface

Incense Haiku

Shadow of smoke plumes

That Crawl along the walls like

Fragrant midday ghosts

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Freedom is a fire on

My fingertips at night,

By day a distant dancer

On the peripheries of sight;

But when the evening comes,

She turns into a flame,

Burning up my irises

Beckoning my gaze.

And this I gladly give,

This little I can do,

For the fire is impalpable

& Her dance is but a ruse.

Yet wittingly, willfully,

I foolishly look on,

With the hope of slipping through

My soft synaptic bonds

Before I waste away

To a raisin of a soul &

My blood becomes stardust &

My heart reverts to coal.

Shearing Time

How curious that each note

Is a drop of codeine.

As if by some accident

Of time

Or tragedy

Of spirit,

The brain on a bed

Of ruffled nerves,

Seemingly comatose,

Sips sweetly

On intravenous melodies.

≥ I ≤

It’s like this book I’m reading,

Where when I stop I mark my place.

I don’t know how long I will be

Before it is finished,

But there are only so many pages.

I’ll get there eventually, but this place

Is charged with electric excitement.

I am surrounded by complex and colorful personas

Shrouded in ethereal soliloquy

The air is shifting in measureless phrases

Molecules shaking like sound waves

To metaphysical music

This place I’ve marked

Is a deep indigo

Enigmatic and oceanic

Light comes to roost in places it shouldn’t

Things become real and lose their meaning

Replaced with nonessentials

Imagination faces a limitation

And waits for you on the other side of it

This place I’ve marked

Is where I lose.

My form, my mind, and my sense of self

The illusion of the individual

Thaws and trickles away

Ceasing to be the person I was

To become the people around me

Poking peepholes in their walls

Of flesh and blood and skin and bones

I look in and see

They too are reading books

Marking their places.

And flipping through the remainder

Of my own pages I find

I’ve already read this story