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Here we are again, too close to be confused.
Yet distance is persistent, despite our evolution.
I speak and the void listens, and an abyss emerges.
This is new life. This is skepticism in the face of truth.
To stare intently. To grieve.
To brace the self in the face of Self.
To seize the momentum and breathe.
I let the train take me where it takes me, despite our conversation.
The poet is blind, with eyes wide... gazing.
To see you even as I fail to notice you, amazing.
Make it brief. Say what must be spoken.
Nourish your soul and grow.
To notice you when I fail to see you.
We attach to the ephemeral, and break apart when death comes.
We adopt stasis; our children are Fear.
And death comes, an X next to an empty line.
We sign. We sign.

Medication Meditation

Diagnosis: psychosis. Divided focus...
mirror broken, glass shattering flying lotus.
Fist to the femur, too many lying coaches tried to fix the demeanor,
now I'm living crass. Savage in the pursuit
of the venom from dying cobras.
Time is frozen exposing the menace of my neurosis.
Madness is only calmed when subjected to higher doses.
This is levitation, head embracing horizonal-rifts,
watching pain slip away as I devise an opus.
Composed from the Heavens? This scenic route,
paths crossing hopeless dimensions, if agnostic
then no mirrors, lights on, shadowboxing with Beetle-juice.
My screams for truth get passed off as demons who
whisper contingencies and paradoxes they breed with brutes.
Wickedness in the deep, I swear I'll stop them.
Do I seem confused with moral depravity?
Breathing putrefaction, no warnings or maps to lead
me, so instead I feed the serpent the apple seed.
I ask him if we can't believe? If he's mad at Eve?
If we ought to go along with divine tragedy.
The sadness bleeds from cracks in the glass of dreams;
no stones to pass for a hack reprieve.
No praxis needed, no practice, just relax and read...?
If modernity is poison at least we have the Greeks.
If Rome was a measure, man is manic, neurotic.
With Platonic doctors making Alexander a profit.
Multi-sided. Lost inside an awkward mind with
compulsion driving the opus maker to falsify.
Not One, a pole of anger controlling hatred,
the other, just a poet taking lashes from your thoughtful God.
I'm no believer, but far from atheistic.
Somewhere along the line I should have bought the lies;
I may have missed the point of all the dying.
Could this be the cause of my demonic nature?
I'm far from gone, but my pain is approaching apex.
Embracing the soul: my brain stretched
through the corridors of space, catching panic.
A forty floor collapse from the mortar, war
in enormous chords, rhythm, chaos and gore.
And lords rule the quarter with rhetoric, a seance
explored to discover the hordes in exodus.
Penmanship: the trump and the sword.
A vengeance myth, but still my sentence lives.
A sentence of life in the meta. A tamed fox
with the grey hare of the "apoc"; face locked in confusion.
In flames, lots have been ruined...
I'm choosing music,
a fluid dynamic existing with true fire,
dancing in loose fibers. Resisting your soothsayers.
Not afraid to embrace a change in the scheme.
'Cause these raging reprieves are danger to me,
but truth ranges from greatness to weakness.
My name is in leagues with pagan elites.
My pages are freedom for the enslaved and the meek.

soulconnect

Stop ignoring the elephant,
it's a beast with the hide of truth.
To skin it you need the might of brutes,
or diamond swords and intelligence.
Yet it's us in this chaos, blushing,
trusting our ways. Off, hustling for pay.
I find that I live on the cusp of dismay,
skin reacting as it touches your gaze.
This isn't passion but havoc and skin and bones.
Your eyes like amethyst in the punishing rain.
I'm standing with my back to the glistening grove,
river in no condition to flow,
I'd like to test the water but hey, I'm missing my soul.
I'm missing your soul.

Monolith

I'd call this mirror a demon, so clearly I see in.
Lies tied with the twine of a genius stitching fear in my freedom.
So weird is this pretense.
Belief in belief, no platform for reason to caption.
Even though I can't hear what I'm seeing.
Action: Decisive.
Pen to canvas to fight myth and capture my likeness.
When the answers to life get staggered and quiet,
At least there's a madness to write with.
Some call it passion, defy this.
Don't ever forget passion's attachment to violence.
Ideology, weaponry.
Certainty in degrees.
Monoliths of truth and deceit to sit between.
If the muse intervenes, check the psychedelica.
Dreams in the night to let the blood from the blessed ones.
Tune to the muse, set the drums.
Pyramids left for us, confused by what the method was.

A little down time.

Quantum Macroconnectivity

Condensed energy,
then it seems a single momentous stream
stretches means into modal tendencies.
Space spanning centuries:
Origin growth, exponential forces explode.
More than is known disclosed as we soar from the globe.
Potentially...
Cosmic memory is force and motion,
gravitation extrapolated from common heredity.
Genetic courses from enormous holes in proportion,
to life thriving from the shores to the oceans.
How did we progress from the source of the quantum order,
where nothingness became collections of thought recorders,
with their own subjective piece of this tropical destiny.
Philosophical, psychological, biological entities
devouring the planet like some entropically spread disease.
Mechanics is the observation of interaction
between the constant stages we're living trapped in.
To study how our honest hatred conditions madness
is to understand how our cosmic sameness delimits passion.
Just listen closer, Schrodinger found, as minutes pass,
friction happens, causing certainty to diminish fast.
Despite the fact we know so little, the problem is real:
as descriptions of the micro and macroscopic revealed
through action processed in theoretical fields,
become accurate commentary on our active ontic ordeal.

Now we seem to be so entrenched in our attributes,
we're content to be blind to the evident, savage truths
raining down upon us like Heaven's collapsed and moved
our notions of paradise to discrepancies, past confused.
Get it? We never get asked for proof,
we just refer to the annals of the last who knew,
who referred further back to the annals of aristocrats reviewed,
who earned money by selling the truth in a package to
the same people who eventually became the massive youth.
Intertwined quantum exactitude.
We live inside minds where consciousness acts as You
and think were not a single kind of object who lacks a clue.
Connections run deeper yet I'm still a skeptic.
We need food, but eat poison knowing it kills digestion.
We feed into a system knowing that it will infect us.
But it's all part of this absolute soul.
We're all descendants,
we all have to choose though.
Despite the fact that beyond our actions, truth holds
and becomes the very same as our decisions.
Thus, we're all dependent,
and we have to choose, so...
With Mind we track beyond our actions, where truth floats
beyond horizons
and becomes the very same as our conditions.

Mindspace: Searching the Strange Horizons

Mindspace, conceptual constellations.
Perpetual proclamations designed then declined; waste.
Exceptionally honest, forgetful in promise;
a scattered disaster-plane where the lessons beyond this
moment in time have been chosen then broken;
shattered into fragments of opus with sharper edges.
Stepping upon the pieces evoking a darker presence.
The pain progresses, unleashed as shards of message,
as vultures with "culture" release to pick apart the sentence.
Vestibule locked and gated for the heart's protection,
the art of connecting fate to existence.
Of Stoic fame and persistence: "play your position
and keep away from the distant deceit of the future's architecture."
Gaze in pursuit of horizon's beginning.
It's more than psychopathy to honestly decide that you're winning.
Time is forgiving but space is unrelenting.
With consciousness prophesying the change confronting many.
This isn't merely addiction, clearly.
It's simply the need to live by the means of theory.
Particle/quantum experiments on perception aside,
to believe in theory is to strip Intention from God.
Collections of excellent quality,
academic product-streams in massive quantities,
taking stabs at economies, but madness is property
of the gatekeepers, those great creatures laughing and profiting.
That is complexity.
Mindspace, unified frames where truth isn't proof,
just a mere shadow of expertise.
Aristotelian natural tendencies to establish your breath and speak.
Socratic in method. Capture the breadth of the action,
then you leap, bringing with you every fact you've collected.
But knowing is not knowing according to the master's apprentice.
It's strange how those we take after the most
rarely ever practice in prose.
The broad shouldered Greek, the shepherds of revelation,
the students of The Philosopher profess to their education.
All men by their very nature require the journey,
whether it's purely desire, burning like fire or the pride of learning,
we either commit suicide, try to escape, or hire attorneys.
There's no evading the scattered nomenclature.
To apologize for bottom lines that collapse and explode the paper,
the same bogus paper on which we print that we owe our neighbors.
Mindspace:
When the words seem as empty as ever before
I take a step back, remember the wars
battles fought, disasters lost, if they accept that
I pray I'm kept from the swords, blind to the bind.
From birth to the surface of purpose, lessons ignored!
Step from the door, the path is closed,
the darkness that seems to follow amasses slow.
The afterglow, as clear as ever, the masters know...
They hear the heavens and ask for hope.
A silent type of eye to eye alliance,
The fight or flight defiance, compliant
with the way that life is changing. The mind is
a sacred device, killed, for the sake of this life.
Quite the paradox... and I'm paying the price.
Mindspace.

Divine Mirror

Divine Mirror

Meritocracy hoisted and bolstered by divine will.
Shadows with voices. A controlled worth that time wields.
Valiant talents challenging choices. Prayers amounting to noises
-each rupturing the barrier between our doubts and their poignancy.
Skeptics are rounded up and caste by silence.
Acts of Mind nullified in favor of massive blindness.
The opiate of the collective disconnecting truth from the Praxis.
To see the ontological alive and breathing,
to feel the epistemic placed aside, vagrant lives completely
changed, their minds appeased for the Proof is in Madness.
That is, analogical to the problem of Who is this God we've accrued...
is the problem of Genius, from the Mind of belief,
is a Man of overwhelming power holding life at his breach.
That is, if you choose to let your Mind in his reach.
Picture a world of faith... governments controlled by religions and creeds.
Could an atheist exist in it free? Could he see the difference between
faith in the unknown and the prescriptive beliefs?
Or would he just become a shadow with a rhythmic speed?
Screaming out for freedom without a passage for delivery...
A message in perfect Time... where Time is actual infinity.
Could a nonbeliever truly exist in a universe of Divines?
I suppose the truth is certain for Minds without worldly concerns...

Or is truth just admiring the world as it turns?
Or is truth just retiring from the world as it burns?

or

Are the faithless just reflections of the faithful?
With no aesthetic or logical weapons to escape to...