notes on the origin of things

command line argument
searching for cheat codes
to release the soul

seasons of the mind
chaos and uniform confusion
a reflection, of the collective mood

we watch
simple actions
propped up
and nestled between
dreams of terminal insanity

i had a memory or vision, i’m not sure which
and in it, she told me that
“everything free, dies in the arms of obscurity”
so, with a hard dick
and soft lips
the redemption of 5am stirs me from
the great half sleep
leftover from a night of tequila and old mushrooms
a night, almost strange enough to write about

staggering down the hall
lingering eyes examine me with a passive intent
cat eyes, dog eyes
eyes of ghosts long since past

out we go, slightly chilled and
watching the morning motorcade
as repetitious birds
call for the glory of night

i’m searching an old notebook for a new line
as my kitten navigates this beautifully cluttered desk
they say disorganization is a sign of genius
more likely it’s a sign of laziness

how many simulations have you run?

line after line
keyboard strokes made whole
as the flow of words is channeled from
spirits long since laid to rest

bottled and prophesied
opened from the inside
we are so often
soft, submissive, and complicated
eventually fatigued and fabricated
but still, we seek fuel
for this finite fury

walking between waking worlds
we remember premonitions of a superstitious kiss
as crippled jokers mock
machine-like magicians
with magnetic melodies

playful ghost
two eyes open
yet the third remains closed
as we tread
into this familiar madness
once more

washed out and walking along a new road that seems old
i feel musical vibrations and real world alterations
yet somehow all the hippies are gone
and here is sit
sacrificing a stuttering pawn
to the false gods of a morning dawn

this binocular view
is a blissful binary hue
and i find nobility
so absurd

try as i might
i still can’t find the key
and for me
it’s eternity
under an orange sea

i can’t tell if these waking dreams
are ghosts, visions, or predictable routines
perhaps i’m just a plaything of the gods
manipulated by an enlightened
and twisted sense of humor

broken souls heal in an uneven manner
and the spaces between spaces are less secure
mapped in a miniature modality
of a meticulous mind funk
i need new songs to sing
pathways, rhythms

admiration, admission, and expiration
the seasons’ finale is almost upon us
what new mysteries will unfold
as i spit upon the face of fate?


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