Take Your Time.

against the mind.
the typical reaction,

discouraged and confused
when it stands as the victor.

What the fuck
were you anticipating?

Diving down so deep
with such swiftness,
did you not expect
death by asphyxiation? 

Return through rebirth,
the same expectations…

I beg
you learn this time. 
I hope
you take your time…

Alchemy of Heisenberg.

Intended to unfold
the path from Mr. Chips to Scarface,
what you got in the end
was a character carved from the blade

of far more realistic means,
the world, the path you came to follow
just in order to reshape him:

black and white organically
bled into gray, revealing the spectrum
underlying the rigid polarity:

consequence of open eyes
coupled with honesty, I suppose.

Protagonist transforms
into antagonist:

Versus Lord Dampnut. 

Virus mutated, disease grew,
finally here, hangry and horny,
so infectious and insatiable,
clawing away at our front door.

Now what do we do?

Learn to laugh at the expense
of neighbors we’ve now grown to hate:
sisters, brothers we never knew.

All over this
ceaseless stream
of steaming bullshit:

a circus of unqualified
elites around a ringleader
with a spinning head,

wheel still creaking
in endless circles inside,
despite the fact

that the mouse,
it’s fucking dead,

rising and falling
like a rag doll
stuck in tumble-dry low

as the divide
between the people grow,

sprouting cracks
branching out
to either side,
splitting every way,
even parallel…

This world we so haphazardly made,
it’s about to blow.  

Will I fight
or continue to hide?

Dysfunctions and Causality.

Let me stop
you right there. The fact
that I’m fucked up? That wires
crossed, short circuits

remain? Most highly classified,
compartmentalized item
on the No Shit List:

just so
you know.

Yes, at some level I certainly qualify
as dysfunctional,
what you would, in your traditional,

reactionary fashion declare
to be insane.

That’s never been a question.

The question
will be, is, always has been:
is my insanity
a cause, or truly an effect?

And, no:
no answers
have been forthcoming

from this peanut gallery, 
nor, I might add,
from that holy, golden nut

apart from the bunch
you presume to be. 

Once you label it unscientific,
be it out of personal vendetta
or tribal inheritance,

you approach it only
as the faithful before heresy would:
provoking the mob,

hungry for lynching,
thirsty to burn
the witch at the stake.  

You don’t want answers.
You’re no friend to the truth.

You’ll settle
for an effective scapegoat.

In the Cockpit.

Zoom in close
to the face. Instantly drawn
into orbit till you stare
into the eyes. Go to the pupil
on your left, concentrate

on the endless pool of darkness
until it seems to swallow
you, blackest of the blackness
going over and around

till you’re inside
the Other’s mind, 
they’re inside yours
or you share

a transient bubble universe,
a telepathic chat-room,
a pre- or post-linguistic
game of charades

or whatever:
the target
may be conscious,
maybe not,

in either case:
you’re at the wheel,
in the cockpit. 

So: drive.

Of Eggshells & A-Bombs.

Tell me why
does listening to this song
always remind 
me of you:

the only moment
that could have so easily
changed the course of my wayward
through this four-dimensional hell?

Overtly, the obstacle,
only: my unwillingness to accept.
You extremes — walking
on eggshells
or tossing A-bombs —

was not a life
I could ever embrace.

I live the gray.
I need the freedom to traverse
the spectrum. Given space,
in time, we understand
each other.

Crossing of paths:
how will
our energies play?

Trial of Midas, Inverted. 

Odds stacked
against my favor, just as I
always wanted it.

Flirting with the bottom,
with all that festering shit.

Belly of the whale
cannot digest all that I’ve
delivered and this

is my saving grace, cleverly,
I escape the mouth
of utter madness.

Now, what to do with it?

With but a touch, turning
wine to piss,
transmuting gold to shit.
My alchemy,
the process, all comically
so grotesque and inverse. 

Without the vaguest
semblance of direction
or inkling of ambition,

with weighed-down will,
I press on. Shaking heads
in disappointment or pity,

faith in me dead in you.
Just as I always wanted it:
all that I’ve feared here
has finally come to pass.

now or never:
what do I
do with it?

Vox Silence.

Perhaps it is all due
to legal issues,
nothing more.

Perhaps these visual
and auditory records, these benchmarks
to your past that only serve
to inhibit

the soul, obstruct
the growth
of a more sophisticated,
integrated psyche,

were as a consequence

Or perhaps you are slowly consolidating
all your disparate,
compartmentalized material, inviting all
to integration and

passed this seeming
absence resides a ritual
to herald the birth
of a singular, unified

I hope you find
your soul.


Champion Spokesperson for the Other Side.

If you seek to destroy,
dismantle this, eviscerate
it, know that every node
contains the entirety

of the web
like a shard
of a goddamned hologram,

just follow the strands
from it, seeking escape…

You would have to become
the champion spokesperson
for the other side

to have a hope in hell
of turning this around,

yourself, my dear.

by all means,
I beg
of you: defy
the odds.

In Pursuit of the Elusive Beast.

Playing hide and seek
with my memories,
still. Severed
now, and shattered.

What did you do to me back
then, still further
and onward and upward, ‘till now?

Masochistic secrecy.
And much more.
Though no less.

Classified, compartmentalized
me, imposed selective,
perhaps hypnotically-induced
amnesia and infected
predictable leaks

through obsessive-compulsions,
vivid and perhaps recurring
dreams and sensory

with denial, cover stories
and disinformation…

An elusive beast.
Capture is impossible.
Even so, I have a need to know,
so strive for greater understanding.

Why are you still running
from me? In the end
and on into the deepest level,
aren’t we
on the same side?

Your loss in my own.
Your victory
is a win for us both.