Sick of the Symptom.

Initially, just a living,
breathing joke.
One that no one took
seriously enough,

including you.

Then came
Election Day. Never

how you underestimated
the clown,
at my pessimistic

Doubt me?
I know the power
of madness

Since then I must confess
I’ve grown numb
to the insanity rising,
coverage courtesy
of the media.

Wonder how he stirred
the pot today. What might
he have destroyed,

what progression of ours
has he cursed
to a dire retrograde

while my eyes
were closed
and I was away?

So tired of this circus
and its ringleader.

So sick of this symptom.

Stuck cursing
the divisive disease
throughout the herd,

what this tweeting twit
may portend.


Three-Eyed Apocalypse.

What a sight
to see. All I took
for reality, shattering
before me, a fragile
illusion impacted

by lost
that suddenly
found me.

Suppose in my quest
I’d been calling
these moments, buried
alive, that now rise,

forming a mosh pit
in my mind,
destroying everything,
questions aching
for their answers hanging
in the sustained

Are you real?
What are you?

What am I
and why
are you doing
this to me?

Enlightenment to what end?
Do I smell malicious intent?

What am I supposed to do
with the shattered pieces
before my two eyes,

and the fragments
before the third,
in my mind?

Cycles, Conversation.

Done with it.
So over it.
Far passed time
to cut this tie.

Just need to find
myself and my place,
bathe in my own inner glow,
shine like a star,

but I’ve been
grounded, stretching
towards sky and water
in desperation
as roots
branch too deep
in the shit.

However done and over,
no clear way
out of this prison.

don’t come easy.

Letting go
takes a lot of strength
as bonds
can come to feel
like appendages,

their severance?
Psychic amputation.

Recognize the illusion.

In cutting an umbilical cord
keeping you bound
to these wretched cycles
as you enter another world,

perhaps you’ll finally
alive again.”

Bloody, Black and Blue.

Attempts to purge
myself of the darkness
inside, refuse
to feed
it but it won’t die,

rising up
from the depths
of my mind
all to drag me down,
starve me of light,

half-remembered dreams
and horrible moods,
so I keep fighting
myself bloody, black
and blue.

I am more than you,
more than this.
I must break myself free,
so sick of this shit.

Balls and Backbone.

within the constraints
of your anxiety.
Bear embarrassment,
damn your lack
of ambition. Inner child
the outer,
would-be parent.

Depressing fate
painfully evident.

Stunted maturity.
Detest your dependency.
Try and nurture
the growth of balls
and backbone, develop
some equanimity,
but you remain

and afraid
of everything.

Nuts, BS, and Self-Awareness.

Nothing’s simple.
Truth is an elusive beast.

and angles I struggle
to discern,

of maybes
I get wound in,
all to find

the golden peanuts
buried in piles
of bullshit.

Mysteries calling to me:
surreal wonders
and horrors
awaiting understanding.

It’s not just a dream.
I’m not making up stories.

The question
as to whether or not
I’m bat-shit crazy,
while interesting,
fails to explain

what’s happened,
all I’ve experienced
and remembered.

Crazy? Maybe.
Sadly, not a liar.

I am burdened
with the knowledge that all
of this is true
to experience.

I am confident
in what it is not.
And as for any confidence
in what it is:

and not faithfully
with respect
to any potential identity

and at varying
degrees depending
on the day.

I am
a confused man,

but at the very least,
I know that I am.

Gravity and a Feeble Animal.

Tell me
its not all just a lie.

Tell me that the comfort
and intensity aglow
within, that sense
that I’m finally
where I should be,

that finally,
after an insane
and twisting road
of trials and terrors
I’ve received

some much-earned
respite —
tell me, please,

its not just instinctive
strings tugging,
using me,
conjuring illusions.

Tell me that bathing
in that light
between her and I
wasn’t just another one
of the body’s tricks,

to follow the carrot,
run from the stick.

Tell me that losing
what I had only shortly
after it was given
freely and she convinced
me to accept

wasn’t the cruel joke
that it felt
like at the time.

Tell me
I wouldn’t have been
better off

where I’d been, staying
low to the ground,
never letting
anyone push ascension
on me,

a feeble and frightened
but fucking
determined animal,
all for fear

of falling, and never
letting her lift
me up
just to drop me.

Tell me
I’ve grown.

Tell me
after all this time
that I’ve learned something.

Agents of Cosmic Deliverance.

Consider that an advanced civilization by our human standards would require a planetary environment that provides the right resources and an intelligent life form that evolves the body necessary to exploit it. Would we have been able to build our technological civilization without an energy resource like fossil fuels, for instance, and would other life-bearing worlds necessarily have fossil fuels to begin with? Even if an ETI had the required materials, would they necessarily be able to exploit it, or might the average ETI be something akin to a super-intelligent octopus or dolphin-like creature on an ocean world? Or a similarly intelligent elephant or crow-like creature on a super-earth?

Could it be that the universe is abundant with intelligent life, teeming with brainy aliens, and it’s just that most of that life has not evolved the appropriate appendages to fashion complex technology?

No matter how high their intelligence, they would never be able to sail the sea of stars above them. In fact, given the appropriate circumstances, they may never catch so much of a hint that such things as stars and a night sky even exist. For instance, they could be aquatic creatures on an ocean world in a multiple star system, bathed in the light of at least one star all the time. Cocooned in endless light pollution, they would be blind to the universe. If they are locked under ice like on the solar moons Europa and Enceladus, they may know nothing of the planet beyond their sheltered world, much less the cosmos as we know it, and yet may also be vastly more intelligent than us.

If this were the case, we may be the only hope for those exoplanetary prisoners. It may be up to us to go to the extraterrestrial super-geniuses. By approaching them gradually in stages that build up to careful first contact, we might dodge blowing their minds into a panic — and we might ultimately serve to release them from their frosty, liquid prisons and nightless lives and help them ascend the mountains and trees to the stars.

With them on our backs, we could introduce them to the vast universe that blubbering idiots like us were able to traverse on account of evolving our goofy hands with thumbs and fingers — without which our mediocre gray matter would reduce us to a relatively common creature, and so utterly useless to them. They’ve perhaps imagined all we’ve done and more, just never had the means to put it all into action — not until now, given we can successfully strike a deal with them.

The deal? They have to rely on us to introduce them to the universe rather than have us fix them up with complex, technological prosthetics. That’s the only way we could ensure that we wouldn’t be wiped out. Us domesticated primates wish to be saviors, after all, not martyrs.

It would be a good deal, though. Through them, we would gain vast knowledge; through us, they would gain vast access. Perhaps a religion would grow among mankind, central to their faith the idea that, as intelligent beings lucky enough to have evolved such appendages, it is our destiny to migrate to and thoroughly explore the far reaches of outer space so as to achieve our proper roles as the intergalactic uber drivers for aliens, as the cosmic cabbies for higher intelligence.

At least relative to current major religions, this would be a religion I wouldn’t mind infesting the minds of the masses. At the very least, it would inspire us to migrate to and colonize space.