Concealed Behind Naked.

Dismembered memory.
Patchwork reconstruction.
Frankenstein reverie.

Complex soul.

Personality
necessarily an unreliable,
neurotic
kind of eyewitness
reconstruction.

I am not
I am more
I am beyond

thee

and yet faced
with quite
a challenge.

Can you dissociate,
or are you

oh so

deeply entranced
by the distorted
self-portrait,

this low-resolution
ego,

this abstract
tribal mask?

Shame
is nothing, really. No worries.
So I say.
And yet, all the while, silently
screaming:

fucking idiot,
can’t you see?
All this, all of it,

it’s really,
fucking killing
me.

Spacetime & Alien Vibrations.

Age circa six.
Playing Space Invaders.
Blind to the significance.

Carried along by my river.
Dumb to its alien process.

Up above, all around,
the gears are turning,
moved by hands

governed
and fingers slaves

to strings
inside

pulled by puppeteers
from out there,
up in the sky.

Yes,
they are here, unseen
and more than merely
observing.

If I knew
what I know,
what would I do?

Close and latch
the windows,
draw the blinds?

Lock and bolt
the door, go to bed

with a gun,
one eye open,
and only with the lights on?

No psychic
or material
boundary
is shield
enough. No armour.

No cocoon
of suffocient
strength.

One mind
can’t take this impact,

at least not
all at once,

and the resulting
dysfunctions
don’t ripple

out to the lake’s edges
in a day. Pluck

a strand
and embrace patience
as you wait

for the whole web
to vibrate.

Of the Height of Hopes for Reason.

Rewrite history
in the minds of the tribe, cast
yourself in better light. In their minds,
reality yields

to their confidence
in your “alternative facts.” No matter
this embarrassment of riches,
this wealth of evidence
to the contrary.

This is post-truth.
Madness.

This is where religion
meets politics
once again. Crying: are we just being

naive

in our high hopes
that logic will prevail,
that reason will win

in the end?