Shit stabbing pencil pushers.
I'm dead. Wake up the dog.
There are candles in your eyes.
Fingernails are growing in the cellar.
The blind run faster if wounded.
The past will complete itself soon.
All that remains will scatter adrift.
Those asleep should not be killed.



Humans dwell encapsulated
within cellular insulations.
Cilia measure vibrations inside
vessels which circulate blood
throughout central nervous systems.

Optic fibers translate data
reflected through eyes into
brains which process these signals into
relatively three-dimensional images.

This occurs on a planet revolving
about a sun hosting this activity
en masse by a process which involves
the necessary transorbital positioning of
repeatedly placing these beings in between
their planet's and its star's geomagnetic cores.

When they are in between these
magnets (a position labelled "day")
there manifests a sufficient amount
of energy by which they may achieve
their daily tasks toward survival
and the continuation of their race.

While outside these magnets
(the intermediary position known as
"night") the majority manage
to rest and recharge their batteries.

If information overload has ever occurred
in the history of this sentient species,
it may best be personified by what occurs
online all over their world wide web today:

The disparity of data and how it
relates directly and indirectly to
humanity eventually collects
into extreme disproportion.

These incoming waves of daily
tidings serve as fast-moving
ticker-tapes of windows
through which individuals
may glimpse single frames
of their living skin.

Scales of the ourobouros
they are each in the process
of weaving together on their
planet looming in outer space.



Given a choice directly ahead of you 
on your pathway toward a binary split
at the fork in the road so to speak
would you turn left to buy yourself more
time in this existence for the cost of
being eaten by an anaconda eventually
or would you turn right where you would
perish painlessly much sooner?  Or
can you accept the spirit of the question
and answer 'left' or 'right' without
rebuking it by providing another reply? 
Your answer reveals a lot about your
capacity to listen.  Those who shout into
the well of tears hear something familiar
echo back up at them, while those who listen
greet something familiar by making a friend. 
Somehow this message got lost on
a lot of us.  Please don't make God 
into an echo chamber where you transform 
loneliness into companionship.  Instead,
reach out to what others are trying to say
and humble yourself before them.  You will
see what I mean when given a choice ahead
of you on your path toward a split of your 
tongue.  The next time someone has
something to say to you will you turn your
left cheek away from them to lend them
your right ear?  Or will you turn right away
and say something about having left
them behind?  Think hard before you 
answer and don't just sit there; say something. 




It is it
A wide open eye
our umbrella
staring awake
seeing all
receive its vision
in dreamshine
we remain dry
while on high
beyond all skies
exists nothing
which our greater eye
needs protection from
unblinking with no shield
it lowers the lids
for all men to yield
to dreams in which
they come to see
what we are
but what are we
must ask again
when we awaken
every morning
slowly coming
to our senses
if not the manifestation
of that countenance
which never sleeps
nestled below
in this blue nest
farthest from the deeps
to get some momentary rest



He cared not for the stars, he did not feel so wise,
there was nowhere for him to go, no matter how many
times he tried, and as a matter of fiction stitched
into our lives, we are sewn together, the teller
and the reader, you see, and that's what draws
you in, the sentences hypnotize your mind
through your eyes, for the duration of the narrative
generated by the source text, the reader begins
to identify with him, our lost protagonist suffering
from sidereal disdain, feeling immobilized on
his pillow at night, and suffocating with routine
during the day, dealing with the intensifying 
awareness that there may be no escape, that
the parameters of our biological continuum may
have been preset for execution, our genetic
message being pronounced along the unfolding
sentences of our generations, that there was
nothing you or we could do to prevent the next
generation's outspoken message, materializing as
word balloons with human outlines, going about
their daily business and routines, mulching the
detritus of our dreams into a palatable nourishment,
our ashes, their fertilizer, but the part that smarts
the most, they cannot see this and are relegated to the
pitiless, regardless of how filled with curiosity
or wonder they've become, nothing less than
being shown themselves directly with time and
experience, until they have reproduced themselves,
that our tongues do not extrude from our own mouths,
so much as they fork through our children's.