Carry on with such message
Meant for those who wish
To make amends

There is nothing that time
Won’t surrender if made
To bend

Something to the knee, and
The archer makes an
Ardent friend—


Let nothing hold you to
Those things that cease
Your means to end

[ afflection ]

Pitter patter,
Missed high tea
By a hare’s width,
And, left with nothing
To spare—turned mad,
Mad as a fucking hatter

Mirrors lead to amazement,
Mirrors wind all the way
Back home

[ immaterial ]

I cannot seem to make
Much sense
Of what belongs and
What doesn’t— till

Eventually, and again,
This spurs me on to
Discontent—and so,
And so the story goes,

The story of the
Living ghost

Perspective turns
The world around,
But, where’s this breeze
Coming from?

IMO society does not reflect the disenchantment of social media

Wonder, wonder
Where roses peak
The thumb that wanders
Was made numb by
What it seeks

The empty mind
Finds a way to
Make a thread of
Hope from dread



Instantly I’m swept off my feet by a flood of blood, pouring in from the outside, easily as tall as I am. It soaks everything within three feet of the door and most of the floor beyond that as well.

Not again.

Show thread


The front door, a few paces across the room from the bed and even fewer from the counter, is necessarily opened by this point as a matter of routine—and I, intending to keep the tradition, fix to do so and, so, do it.

Show thread


Another morning in the mud hut. The sun streams in to paint a cozy serenity.

Knick knacks everywhere catch little balls of light off their planes and edges and toss it amongst themselves almost as if they were children in frolic.

Heck, in the forest, everyone’s up for a game anytime. Well, almost.

I stretch myself awake and find my way to the wall that hosts what I’ve come to think of as my kitchen counter.

[s e d u c t a p e]

Silently the girdle
Slips, past the curve
Of fleshy wisps

That present and press
Against invisible stresses—straps
Unseen, but quite

Well felt—the blanket
Softer than silk, listless,
Stretches against

The skin—nothing
Escapes the tired grip
Of a mind tossing

Shadows against the screen,
Then, letting them slip and drip
And drip

So: candles conceive only
Absurd designs—whether
Lit one end or nine


carnival spirit
I won't be stayed

I crack upon
the smack of dawn

with smatterings of mist
in shapes long-drawn, of

days long gone—

designed for the sudden
summary of sunset

that rests its threat
of spontaneous demise

amidst the crook, the
crevice, the aurum crest

of yon horizon's breast

that heaves with the
spirit of possibility—

I am something solar and
increasingly grey

I am the light of day


I am nothing
If not
Something unnecessary

I am nothing
If not
Something essential

I am
Something, if
Nothing else

[within/without, pt.2]

Make what ideas rest
Within the mind

Shine upon the second,
Next—a second lost,

A minute invested in

The manufacture of

Prods the mycelial
Mechanics of

The meditative kind,
Even when we tend

To be unkind

Show thread

[within/without, pt.1]

Training focus—
The meditation that

Mediation imbues

The mind—lost in a second
As sand slips particle

By particle—a rush
As currency gripped

Is let slip

And rains upon
Intentions borne

By plight of what
Incites the mind

To produce intention

First—nothing but
The rubber of

Cognition bears fruit
Amongst the stars

That shine as ideals—


Summary makes
for quick solace

When sense is twisted
Out into space—

Struggle is pasted
Across the make

Of cosmic face

And what matters
Is pressed

In question against
Curiosity’s quest

To taste the universe


Haphazard complacency
Paints regret with
Nothing kind, while

Impatience for the
Tension building
Breaks into rhythmic

Intervals of sound,
Squeezing through the
Technosapient membrane—

The soul, the heart
The earful of

That bears the
Careful onslaught
Of carbonated melody

Through the desktop
Speakers singing centuries
Into the night

Liberty dressed in
casual best


strides upon the

Pride resides in
knowing that,


Freedom paints the
naked youth,

Liberty weaves
an ageless truth—

As feeds

the growing needs of
Maturity—we seeds

of Autonomy's brood

Set adrift
Like leaves upon

The glassy sheen
Of springs

Embracing twists whilst
Sprinting softly—‘twixt

The dashing landscapes
Of green—

The merry stream
Of consciousness bubbles

And bears—skipping
Swiftly, and with

Ease—the soft caress of
Sunlight, glistening,

Upon its face, its
Wander and weave


The sun-dressed stream of consciousness,
of wind-swept summers, dreams.

Appreciation dwells in
Shallow corners

Donning shadows so
As not to be seen—

As not to be seen
As should be possible

Were appreciation not one
For making a scene


~and so, the stream of consciousness
(where appreciation, attention, seeks)

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