Dusk Falls.

Burn it down.
Watch as it builds up again.
Try and blow it away:
it bends but it never breaks.

Go ahead,
try to flood the fucker out.
Just prepare to see it float.

There’s no way around.
No way out.
No escaping.

Like your shadow
as you race towards the falling sun.

Just let dusk fall. 

Demolition,
reconstruction. Armageddon
and recreation. Forever
bouncing back from extinction.

Kill it again
to watch it rise from the dead. 
There remains no way around.
No way out.

No escaping.

Like your shadow
as you race towards
the falling sun.

I beg of you, before
it’s forced upon you:

just let dusk fall.

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Cages and Questions.

Judge the essential
me you can never see,
the Original Face
your eyes can’t peek,
much less stare down,

by virtue
of the pigment
of my temple’s skin,
by this between my legs
or that which I want to slip
inside, what I want
to thrust in;

by what I feel,
what I think,
have experienced,

by all my philosophical
or political leanings,
where I’ve come from

(all my works and wandering)
or the life that, currently,
I choose to live,

be it misaligned
with or resonant 
with integrity.

Write me off.
Write me in. Etch
me as you like in your mind: 

it influences my perception,
not the perceiving.

I know who I am.
I am no what.
Can’t cage me in.

Still, my skin is itching, crawling,
peeling off its foreign foundation
and strange skeleton,
revealing something alien,

so you must build
a much better costume, a more fitting mask.
To ever have hope
of finding so much as a working hypothesis,
build courage: ask

the absurd,
inappropriate, strange
and beautiful questions 

your lost,
wandering soul
somehow
has the gall to ask.

Tapping Beyond.

Naked. Marked
with bruises and scars.

That’s nothing: check
out my knees.
Gaze in wonder
as they bleed.

I know shame.
I know pain.
Hell, so far as I was aware,
that encapsulated
everything.

Then in she comes,
intro to happiness. To hell
with your bliss
and betrayal. That sneak peek
fucking ruined everything.

Why the seed?
Why the egg?
Why the womb?

Why be born just to die
in my arms,
and justify my existence,

constantly tagging,
reminding me that we’re tapping
into something beyond?

Notes of a Stubborn Subject.

To stand
here, powerless,
and watch it as it all falls
down,

I must imagine
what this sequence
represents is horrifying,
so I freely confess
my agonizing ignorance.

Is it fiction or fact?

Is this on a screen
in an otherwise dark,
cool, cavernous room,
or projected directly
into my mind?

And, regardless:
is intelligence truly a fatal mutation,
or can we embrace

the truth, fly and soar
to a place
so far beyond this?

And are you truly
the best route,
or are you here to save
yourselves
and in the process,
fuck us?

No.

Don’t tell me I’m you.
I’m not one of you,
part of this:

only your prey,
hopelessly
ensnared:

just a victim of your process.
By no means a willing participant
in all of this. Just a passionate
and stubborn subject.

I’ll find a way to stop this, inspire
some vague semblance
of justice
doomed to take hold.

Truth.

Test me for faith.

If found, by all means, eliminate.
I need no blind, constipating
platitudes, nor ignorant embrace
and subsequent evangelism.

Truth is fixed
as the target
here. Make no mistakes,
my dear.

Honesty, reality:
this is what I strive for.

Blind,
in silence,
show me, let

me listen to what I’ve been,
so I know

what to veer
from as I
aim for…

Narcassist Presumed Dead.

Such a deep ditch,
something more like a grave.
I mean, here, you lied down
and got covered up

like a political scandal
sufficiently snuffed,
all until you took the hint —

what must
have been one of countless
instinctive alarms delivered —
and jolted awake
inside your simple home,
self-sufficient, now
a coffin,

and wondered just how,
with instincts
so withdrawn
yet so damned grandiose,

you should make an entrance
and rise
from the presumed
dead again.

Of Grays and Chad.

Itching for a hideaway,
a costume,
a mask.

A place to rest your weary feet,
relieve your calloused soles
and call home,

a face to attract souls burdened
with a shared sense
of estrangement,

though they may lack the experiential
spectrum of betrayal you endure.

Empathy.
Endurance.

This is so wrong…

So fucking
determined.

So you found a way that refuses to deny
the whole truth, but rather fixes
on a mere aspect, yet denying the world
the whole story, the unabridged
manuscript, still

I know you’ve seen them,
that you’re another one.
Confessions may be denied,
but it seems we smell our own.

I can feel it your scream,
hear it in your words.

It burns in my guts.
I’m not alone.

Neither are you.

I was lucky enough to be born
into circumstances
in which I never had to endure
all that you’ve been through
on this so-called sacred earth,

though you speak
of other things
which remain
so hauntingly familiar…

It’s real.
You can’t just forget
to remember.

Please come ‘round,
use the power of your soul, heart,
thought and sound,

speak to your sisters and brothers
left gazing across the edge
of this dying world,

leave your mark,
offer your words.