Unfurl your self-consciousness and step over the fulcrum, that tipping point so you can lift yourself into ultra openness, seek to see the jungle of every possible operation, take stabs into the constraints, and watch as nature bleeds beauty but does not degrade into anything less than it ever was, still as explicable – still explainable.

Huntress of the Ephemeral

For Amy D.

Catcher of infinitesimal interactions,

gatherer of aesthetic,

stab my heart,

fly away to islands as irresistible as sugar,

search for the solution,

delete my mental pollution,

clean the air, scrub the molecules,

rearrange the contents of my lungs,

displace the longing in my heart,

find a place to put this passion,

make it gravitate like that interstellar asteroid.

If only we could capture it and

see its story,

see the possibility of our reunion,

these strange lost rocks I stumble over are starting to slip from my hands,

this granite dome descends into rock slides,

It carries me down into the Merced,

out into the Pacific,

to set sail into the ocean and into your bed,

risking the sharks and swift currents, 

ripe with enumerable emotions I can’t manage,

I distract myself with infinities,

you make life.

I cherish the thoughts of you in my head.

Slowly Sinking Submarine

We’re like people on a huge, well-designed submarine, which has all sorts of lifesaving devices built in, who don’t know they’re in a submarine. They think they’re in a motorboat, and they’re going to open all the hatches because they want to have a nicer view. – David Deutsch

Moving a moment out of frame,

out of attention,

in a critical carving of a knife intended for suicide.

We will die either way

somewhere down the line, 

when the pressure gets too powerful,

and the oxygen cuts out

in our vessel we all captain.

Swallowing a blade into a vein,

so we can have some semblance

of control.

We the people, in entertaining disguises,

are well removed while our bombs go off above, 

before our distinctions are made

of who you are,

philosopher king and captain of only your mind,

          although perfect in its universality.

The global community's eardrums break,

by letting loose the valves

for these ventriloquists,

our puppet opportunists,

suffering because we had drawn deep lines in public sand.

We sit with shut eyes in front of a glorious mirror,

in a trance,

before the answers we dare not accept:

That we must draw these daggers away from self,

Only I,

this focus

on fun,

distrust all otherwise.

Or keep walking silently,

sinking while being subtlety stabbed,

suffering with ears full of water,

coasting unconsciously downwards with windows drawn open.

We can be the space arising,

surrounded by impeccable sustenance,

all our possibilities, 

as we float

towards open-ended brilliance,

of all that can be,

joyous above cool seas,

because we fought

to freely feel the breeze.

Elevated Dust

Vibrant oil drains erratic

spreading unmagic.

My brain                in moving frame

darting                          charting

in isolation,

breeding new burdens of beauty,

new behaviors.

New ideas

of how to live

that hang off a sopping wet brush,

dying the canvas,

depicting dead ends cut.

Asking how to truly live?

A nobility to give,

my hand making strokes in sand,

where each grain of my being

aligns with causality.

Morality:

What to do in all this connectivity,

with a supreme sense of all the possibilities

of all the elegant structures that we could come to be.

Cut Me Down

Let me breath,

LET ME CARRY THE LIGHT IN MY EYES!

Let me exist as a mind without a body,

paralyze me and watch me shapeshift into a true sapien,

Take it from me,

steal my heart,

cancel the order

of blood to my toes,

take my hands 

leave me to program machines

         fellow constructors.

Break my ankles and watch me run through libraries.

Keep you cocks and pussys

and watch me cum joy in the womb of curiosity.

Rubble in the Road

There's bullshit that gets smoothed out eventually,
like gravity's dance with the stones of Saturn,
a minuscule cling on a pebble,
angels pushing down on dust floating in the cosmic wind,
falling down and around at such a speed,
akin to when you hit a dip in the road and it causes a single drop of oil to fall,
and the pattern persists into an iridescent puddle.

Time flows similarly 

but with an arrow hard to follow and unfurl,
there's always a catch,
a void.

Pulling us towards a reality of our creation.
With our power, 

we fight towards an unknowable place,
we'll envelop our essence in undeletable, eternal, spirit vessels,
infinitely interwoven with whatever we wish.

Starting with conjecture — a strand,
an irrational creation myth of our weaving,
that we told ourselves when we lived in the woods.

Some finite time from now,
we will all start to grasp towards the foundations
with the whole of our being,
with overflowing bliss, 
fully in love with the gift of life.