Untitled

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...

Waiting

Waiting

Patience is not a virtue.
At least that's what the boy had believed.
Despite being told the opposite he'd thought a bit,
understood reality moved regardless if he thought his choices were free.
The problem isn't cosmic drift, it's
the Grand Comic's bit about the universe expanding until apocalypse...
And he considers himself an optimist.
From a very young age he had questions regarding consciousness.
Waiting for answers weren't part of his parents' promises.
His father did not permit anything but an agnostic twist
to an age old argument: "No one can ever know, therefore, God exists."
Puzzled, the boy struggled, encroaching upon logic's limits,
consulted scholar after scholar, Religious thinkers and Scientists;
and concluded that even the world's foremost geniuses have extreme biases.
He wondered about Time's condition,
from atomic clocks that tick to Einstein's persistence,
that space conforms to Mind and perception is just petty acceptance of environment.
So the boy drafted a letter: "To the Children Who Wait..."
Entitled with a kind ellipse to capture the resilience of Fate.
In fact, that's the concept he started with:

"Fate is fascination with certain uncertainty. Not faith
just the acceptance that if we wait things will never work perfectly.
Purpose seems to buckle under the weight of philosophical urgency,
and conceptions of the End become brilliant obstacles and recurring themes.
Beauty and Goodness, Platonic forms and Promised War:
We wait regardless if they choose the pen and not the sword.
We wait for harvest, fruits of labor or Confucian favor,
or Buddhist wayward progression away from the abuse of flavor.
Pleasure without an epicenter where the youngest reside,
waiting like the Man who just turned one hundred to die.
Waiting like, for the bus, or a ride, to get plucked like a fly
and plunge from the sky... or the stubborn depressed
waiting for the comfort to cry.
Patience is not a virtue, I believe that's taught to hurt you
into thinking that if you wait for an answer it oughtn't curse you.
Patience is just another means to get caught in an awful circle
of thought we turn to only to struggle distraught:
there's enough love lost for one soul, not to mention an Earth full."

He dropped his pen to the floor, shaking as if in the purview of Proof
and still went about his life, in continued pursuit of the Truth.
Patience...

Nabatean Salve: 19xx

Nabatean Salve: 19xx

The arid ruins reflected dawn like they manifested Heaven's balm,
lubricating perception.
Desolate but any angered spirit would instantly be rendered calm.
Upon approach his Mind would dance, his Muse exclaimed...
Forever lost are these ruined plains; as time advanced
the Nabateans witnessed legends brought to bear on Market Square
the rabble approached the Street Priest with awkward stares.
He'd scream "Peace! as prophesied since the Dawn of Time!"
Focused as if called by God though most agreed he'd lost his mind.
The truth is, through meditation he saw designs of ancient crypts,
and on an obelisk's spine displayed an escapist's script
with golden-glyphed messages comprising a salvation Myth.
His proud nation split thanks to religious rifts and civil war.
And he knew these visions writ of a simpler fix than glinting swords
slicing hordes of passionate zealots and revolutionaries.
Lies resounded confounding unconnected ideologies;
Until finally someone listened that wasn't a filthy pocket thief.
"The war's direction rarely seems to sway based on the executions."
Wary, the non-thief looked on, a "rebel" patch on his leather tunic:
"The Mages sent me to you, you claim to have been revealed an answer,
we are a smaller rebel order, the revolution feels in danger
for the last time we listened to a prophecy we were killed in anger."
The priest recoiled, never having been confronted by authentic doubt before.
He lived within his own truth, strife never having been accounted for.
So he set the rebel to task, to seek these mythic ruins.
To the Nabatean Petra. Assuming this isn't just some twit's delusion.
A single etching by an ancient sage to upset entire institutions?
But the non-thief believed in peace and swore he would live to prove it.

Within the Priest's chambers, a lazy shadow reflected stasis...
He sat lotus-like, controlled, precise in effortless meditation.
Visions flooded his cortex, at first numbers in an extended matrix
spilled out onto a canvas painting of a list of ten equations:
The first was a function of Time as it bends with space,
the last was an algorithm explaining genetic language.
Between were arguments for the existence of persistent life,
the priest: the vehicle for the computing system within his mind.
These combined created an image of the Mage's rebel,
a silhouette shifting from ether to flesh engraved in metal.
No aesthetic order, but the program seemed to sketch a border
within which man could act without fear of the gaze of devils.
A shadow on a cavern wall became blighted by the ridicule
of humanness, which only captures what is timely and predictable.
The priest imagined the non-thief deceased on the ruin halls,
then was struck out of his trance by rebel guards screaming "Move along!"
Truth is lost in the channels of sublimity,
"The river downward" could merely be the mind stuck in the annals of infinity.

Theory of Mystic Justice: The Veil of Ignorance

"...no one knows his place in society, his class position or social status; nor does he know his fortune in the distribution of natural assets and abilities, his intelligence and strength, and the like." - John Rawls

---

Breathing deeply exceeding sufficient focus conditions.
Spinning on either side of me, silently combining each
element invoking implicit occult traditions. Let us seek
wisdom from Opus to Opus: molecular message peaked;
Systems controlling my hopes to get us connected to Gnosis.
The Stone is just another drop away: osmosis. The clock's display
is frozen for Time is only a constraint for those within limits of
conventional physics. Only respect for the distance between
ignorance and enlightenment. Action crafted in silent rifts.
Rawlsean veils exposed by the mystic's decree.
Restrictions: thinking linearly.
I insist: to proceed and process most efficiently
let the mental stretch with exponential logarithmic speed.
Potential bleeds from the vial, more errors in this trial
than perfect successes.
But only one needs to work to make it worth the investment.

Breathing heavily connecting each section to the next,
mixing acoustic mastery.
The music blasting free into collections of obsessed
citizens moving frantically.
Spinning on either side of me, a veneration of control...
They say the art is religious regeneration of the Soul.
Crack the wishbone: carefully extract the marrow.
Ambitions dripping acutely into industrial cauldrons.
Relax your grip though, it's the subtlest science.
The mission is truth seeking: the lushest indulgence.
Pungent environs,
the praxis is beyond just syntax and semiotics.
It's actually applying exactness when combining
enough passion to create impactful steady progress.
Enough potency to render the power in Heaven modest...

Pray accordingly,
this much precision we should be worshiping.
Blending the micro-filaments with diligence in ordering.
Output various like instrumental chords from strings.
Break the plastic: fervently replace the needle.
Sufficient this mythic truth seeping love from the auspice
of ancient madness, it's a wondrous triumph.
Pythagorean spheres spinning with abundance exhausted.
Sacred neolithic scripting etched on the masks of pharaohs.
Cast the mended Arrow toward the frantic raving excitement:
Sound from the loudest of amplification devices.
Fluid from the Grand Elixir creating infinite Youth.
Drum, bass, rhythm
rhyme, flow, charisma
Coal, gold, platinum,
all that exists is the Truth.

Life... explained!

The Future is Now! the Daily Times exclaimed.

The latest scientific journal headlined: Life... explained!

The year is unimportant, the calendar's been pulled for analysis,

with GenMod's assertion that mortality's been challenged.

This year is a new year, with its corporate fountain now spouting youth;

Advertisements were precisely contrived to confound the truth.

"We will choose the best candidate to become the first immortal being!

Applicants will have the medical establishment's support completely..."

Born with a life-limit, she chose to live accordingly.

At four she was awarded due to increased mental absorption speeds.

Memory exemplary:

language skills gave her peers and teachers the strangest feeling,

how a child could speak so forcefully...?

Eventually she sped ahead of her friends and authorities,

clearly an anomaly: but fearing not she wondered exhaustively

about everything from principled morality to government policy.

The times were changing, and she noticed she could play a role.

With the genetic clock ticking in her body she knew she had to take control.

She avoided faith and antiquated methods to save her soul,

and instead dedicated her existence to humanity's greatest goal.

The implications were immense, if she could be the first success,

the immortality ensued would clearly be worth the stress.

She wrote a brief letter to GenMod's president.

Careful not to deify the man with any exaggerated Pretend-God epithets.

She spoke in simple terms, with clear logic and argument.

She was the most brilliant in her region, and her problem was arduous.

What a waste it would be to see such genius extinguished,

by something as trivial as genetic predisposition...

She sealed the envelope with her tongue and smiled.

She sought immortality with a stubborn hunter's guile,

and wouldn't be denied, in fact, she couldn't be rejected.

A dead genius is no good to society, and... she wouldn't be respected.

Born in privilege: he chose to live recklessly.

Spent on a whim and treated no one respectfully.

He had the money to obtain anything material.

And spent to avoid his unadulterated fear of truth:

the fear of his own morality encountering society,

but still he chose to live selfishly with every ounce of his propriety.

His rivalry was poverty, to avoid struggle at all costs

and never wondered what would happen if he woke up with it all lost.

He'd assault transactions with greed and manipulation,

and didn't really care if moral structures disintegrated.

The implications of immortality had obvious appeal;

more reason to pursue wealth with obnoxiousness and zeal.

With the respect his money earned, his problems were concealed.

And he knew his vicious nature would be impossible to heal...

As soon as he heard that he could live forever,

he wrote a check for a substantial amount and placed it in a letter.

To GenMod's president he wrote of his intentions:

He pledged to engage the world with philanthropic aggression. 

He assured him of the reward he would receive in publicity,

if such a powerful man were to be the first to live infinitely.

He knew he'd need incentive to carry on in his ways...

the thing about material existence is that it's gone with your days,

profits decay, lost in dismay: all that you've fought to obtain.

So he'd solve that problem regardless of the cost it would take.

The President of GenMod stood aloof on his office balcony.

The city moved beneath him, he thought of how it would feel falling down 

as he pondered his options. How could he decide...

Either choice would require sacrifice.

Would he squander his profits in favor of the world's most ample mind?

Think of the implications of having to choose your first immortal soul.

As a president responsible for ensuring corporate growth,

would you deprive the world of genius for sufficient payment,

allowing Greed to encompass the first immortal in the nation?

He's known now as just another corporate head,

which decision would help garner more respect?

This technology is unprecedented, the control is his to decide,

he's slated to undergo the treatment as soon his approval's signed... 

It becomes about respect: for the present day or future growth.

Then he decided... why shouldn't he just move for both?

It's both about longevity and the profit it generates,

let nature take its course with an honest respect for Fate...

A year passed, the first of humanity to surrender to longevity

emerged from their procedures. 

The girl was now perfection genetically, 

she was determined to free Earth from its deadliness.

But the public, failed respecting her as Heavenly,

didn't see salvation in her intentions, didn't perceive her respectfully.

They were threatened by her brain, not in awe of its utility.

There's a sense in which she realized as a mortal with a short life

despite her intellect she was more liked...

The first task He set about to do with his enhancement complete,

was to fund the most lavish retreat for the President of GenMod and

never did he feel so happy and complete.

He wrote a check to lift the ten bottom countries from madness and disease.

The last of the impoverished were shown posterity.

His deeds made the headlines, once again his respect climbed.

It's not terribly implausible to imagine this outcome.

How else could you truly gain respect and happiness without funds.

Philosophers in the academies recoiled at the developments.

Morality was turned upon its head and sacrificed intelligence.

Never before had humanity truly learned about respect.

A girl genius lives forever but was cast-aside: irrelevant.

Practicality without the ideals of a liberal society.

"Whatever works," said the pragmatists in interviews with sly decree.

The lesson is of true concern, our course presently depends

upon decisions that contribute to our longevity, but

if a life is just another means to a greedy end

then clearly life is not a concept that needs respect.

Wall Builder

Padded desolation, betwixt the familiar and the foreign.
Glinting light-swords from the highest source feeding freedom.
Form is related to the concept
if the concept can be attributed to the Form.
I beg the question. Let us take a closer look.
Nothing grows from nothing, yet the desert thrives.
Spawning death from lack.
Breeding death from lives.
The Poet is alone, though his words are pervasive.
Despite the seeming emptiness.
In spite of all reflecting sensibilities,
regardless of his need for certain energy...
To write
is to feed from that source and give color to stagnation.
But the Poet is a Wall Builder.
He can stop the world from seeing...
from believing his truth.

The Grim Reaper's Unknown Brother

Beep... beep... beep... beep... flat line.
From the black shine, comes the past-mind:
a flashback...


They didn't understand me, they needed to know the truth.
I stood amongst the crowds looking down with explosive youth.
I'd show and prove! They looked upon me with an eagerness,
the kind that makes me question the fact that we exist...
I mean as a species this life could have started in a petri dish.
I spoke of corruption in politics, of the spiritual hoaxes.
I spoke of the en-trusted, the Offices, how they clearly expose us
to the most disgusting of Offerings.
Drunken with power.
The same power I currently felt in control of the people.
Think of the feeling, imagine dialing down the rain,
and purposefully sweltering with telepathic reach
in the minds of these...
hellish, panicked freaks.

Perspective shift:
A burning abdomen,

the kind of burning with disturbing savageness.
A chest with kicking heart and shortening, faster skips,
beating...
Spinning mental order; existential exorcism.
"A death's in order, it just so happens to be yours."

The Pecking Order, where Chaos has Met with Order.
An out of balanced stress-reporter: that best of portions
of the mind that regulates how to distinguish between true alarm,
and the decision to simply buckle down and send the warning,
then just sit back and let the flesh absorb it.
This was True Stress, human flesh overcome with blueness,
that slowing life-richness, where knowing finds limits,
where the loneliness feels the exact opposite of the highest bliss.
Where every pariah lives crying with their cynical minds inhibited like...
Indian settlements in Native Lands.
That blazing brand slicing through dunes slinging blades of sand,
Tossing life away, destroying time and space,
like clockwork's patient dance.

---

They tell me when I say I can't remember what it felt like,
"you're a liar, you're a fraud, you've never seen the face of death."
I tell them, well, I say in jest: "think of when a matrix glitches:
the same image, in the same instance, at a different time."
They usually chuckle at the reference to a movie:
"If I could describe the feeling, I feel I'd be a different guy,
besides... I felt death, but he had a different guise...
he was dressed in the richest white, halo in his hands,
with a rope hanging loosely around his neck.
Cleanly shaven, this anthropomorphic Daemon:
the embodiment of our faith in
our attempt to perfectly create and handle our mortal weakness."
But what I met, wasn't simply death,
I met Fortune's legion on a battlefield of scorching heat:
They carried me to their master, I carried my mind to a Mythic Mind:
They called him Death, Followed by Persistent Life...
I asked him to speak, he retorted,
shouting sounds of Peace, then he challenged me:
we locked gazes, but before I could even act
I was reaped into Immortality....

I would have rather met Death.

Parallel Con-sequence

Complete conception: complexity unraveling.
With each connection collectively attaching intervening nodes.
Synapses reacting and receiving messages:
the input/output mechanism interjects belief.
Yet, we emote-
as if we with simple deed can truly achieve complete control.
They sit in stagnation as I feed their souls.
Surrounded by the system he sits in the lotus position:
the main monitor allows him to know the condition
of the entire society beneath him.
Adjacent awaits the interface he can change based on the information it feeds him.
The menu displays everything, from the state of the economies,
to the causal properties resulting from changes in their policies.
From atop the watershed he touches breadth with scope:
a rush of depth and percussive strength and severed hope.
Facilitating faith in God or a universe of punishment.
We guess he knows.
We only look above for cascading trust in Death as the salvation "we" lust for,
yet he fills our lives with such duress; we discuss in wonderment.
On his canvas the brush connects reflecting the sublime message
dripping to the valley below where the powerless flows.
Some say we just live in a channel where our cowardice grows.
The northern descent: an avenue toward divine repentance.
Forced respect for the oppressor. A master's muse.
Of course it's the next place I'll move the cattle to.
Horrific deaths. Avenues of coarse intensity.
Plugged in forever we
can never seem to hold on to important memories.
I sit in flux:
His control is pervasive. We guess we know.
When I move my arm I think I'm moving flesh and bone.
But the sensation resembles an existential distance.
Decisions are made, yet devoid of any preferential imprints.
Resist and unplug!
Its existence is a given though.
Life is not for limits, if I could live it slow...
I'd have just enough time for a little growth.
Time is freely perceived, yet easy to waste.
We could merely turn away from these deviant deeds,
seek and Create. Concoct and design,
and work out specifically where the problem must lie.
But indeed, perfect happiness is not defined,
so determine action.
Stand up and turn it off,
for we know what seems to furnish madness.
Or at least we seem to know.

Believe... Control.

The Problem of Induction

The Problem of Induction...
But what if God exists?

Holy chasm: division controlling action contributing growth.
A vibrant gaze, unfolding fast...
a lifeless haze persisting the floating Mass, insisting in Life creation.
Yet, this Provident Prince, a Colossus of wit,
knew this universe would suffer if he didn't provide constraints.
Time is trained to follow His Whim:
So He boiled the quantum liquid in the Cosmic Pot to its brim.
He concocted the Atomic Clock:
Analogous to human chronology,
He set the evolution of society to allow for swift advanced future technologies.

This Utopian vision... a true focus of wisdom.
God wasn't much to the Parliamentary Robes to consider.
Yet, they knew based on the limits of their History
that their advances were simply in principle a mystery.
They attributed them to the Schools of Genius.
But the emergence of great minds all at the same time seemed too convenient.
They struggled in the academies to come up with an explanation.
A Theory of Evolution was constructed and set in place with
the sciences and philosophies as productive contributors.
But they couldn't account for the Poet.
Always disrupting opinions with prophetic deductions and inferences.
His listeners were astounded and open
to the possibility that things weren't as sound as they'd hoped.

This Strange Society: with no record of development...
So collectively intelligent. No estrangement or rivalries;
no rearrangements, no requirements for engagement.
Just implicit acknowledgement of the Grace which the society has embraced.
But do they listen to the signs? 
Are they witness to the Darkness?
Do we not see our Economies starting to shake?
Our Systems, so used to efficiency;
Can you not feel their foundations congruently withering?

See the panoramic camera expand? Watch these bustling cities.
Once a pristine image, now potential-ruins crumbling quickly.
Coming death due to flawed perception.
Short-term creative redundancies punishing -- lost direction.
Longevity requires carefully mapping and planning approaches.
Strategies for answering broken hopes
disintegrate as every staple of a rich culture is engrossed in smoke.
They Occupy the streets. Speaking out against
how they drop their Bombs from Skies complete with a Demon's smile
painted on their beaks. We guess they mean it now.

Do not say it wasn't expected. 
In a meditative muse the Poet is entrusted with leverage
that he mustn't express unless confronted with Reason.
The mythical truth is indivisible... Proof isn't just in Belief...
this perceiving isn't simply defeatism.
Just as a piece of music needs rhythm,
so does reality require the forces of entropy.
Living in a dream isn't in concordance with death, it seems.
And yet we breathe, with eyes out for perfected peace.
And Life is just the bottle we let the Fly out for Memory.
Retrospectively...

But what if God doesn't exist?

Stream of Consequence

There's no fortune according to the course we've endorsed,
just portions of exorbitant morbidness.
Think of how we stick our swords in and twist,
hoping there's Reason we can force to exist. Exploring with
open focus devoted to hopelessness, I've known of it;
I let the beast out with concordances. Connecting
to elemental endorphin-rifts playing neuronal orbit-drift:
watch the electron kick split your best drawn wit,
with flesh all red from the headstrong myths,
that led you to get stepped on. Quick with the catch-all.
Conceptual netting letting blood from the bedding
that your ideological souls attempt to rest on. Sit
with my focus entrenched in the fabric of Legends.
Rapid and rabid with message, savage in session,
way beyond, past the procession, fashioned progression.
No lacking of weapons when crafting suggestion.
Staying strong, enraptured and yet...
Just sit and stare at blackness and let the madness collected
keep your passion in check if, only you had the knack for investment.
Lyrical arbitrage: steering through barbed designs,
lacerating your darkened mind through furious stark decline.
Keep your miracles; your cyclical pivot and reciprocal distance.
Change isn't estranged from the literal instance.
Embedded in physical imprints: no synthetic or mystical "misclicks."
Instead its the simplest measurement. No pressure or isn't there?
Listen here: there's no disease, no flowing stream, or fiscal year
encompassing the rush of our thunderous... simple fear.
I live in mirrors. Shards are my ardent peers: broken reflexiveness.
I guess the ramification is the matrix we've chosen to let persist.
There's no moment of exorcism, no opus of essences.
Only the poet and his soul on a spending binge.
Consequent: purging letters in a concurrently growing eclectic-itch.

Captain's Ode

"Captain's Ode"

Beloved:
I have little time for words, for we have a campaign to wage.
My dearest, I fear you must do away with the champagne we saved...

Prologue: Dawn of War
I'm writing now with the hopes to convey...;
today all I've witnessed has been the atrocious display
of defeat, all our focus on the goal has diminished.
Like a sinking vessel, a simple hole and were finished.

Ode to Command
Gazing into the horizon...with the sun setting we oblige:
alive yet amazed, what with the blood letting and the collecting of demon hides.
My machete's stains serve to constantly remind me
of that blitz into the abyss. The defiance of Divine myth.
In the midst of defeat, within an inch of retreat
decide quickly to divide us, or keep the advantage with precision.
Glinting steel: our battle standards advancing our position.
And lift the veil, but conceal intentions to attack.
Your decision is our mission: keep our legacy intact!
Contain the enemy: be aware of the perimeter.
Your control over the tides, you're our scribe, you're our God...
you're alive as our parish and parishioner!

Ode to Soldier
Muse wielding battlements, anticipating savageness.
Feeling passion rip the fabric of our reasoning capacities.
There's little logic in a Soldier's day.
He responds to what controls his fate.
He will not be dominated by these legions slinging tragedy!
In moments we shall confront the Depths.
For all that's holy we shall punish Death!
We will not be stopped by hatred, we'll free our kindred from their shackling.
Count the war drum's rhythm, feel the pure thud driven
by our lust for the thrust of our swords in their guts!
Listen to the hush before the last drum's signal
on the final eighth we shall invade.
Attack from the shore to the hill with grace and valiant Blades.

Ode to Understanding
Another day with Reason marching, thinking of freedom largely,
and what possibly a notion of God could teach us.
A mythical regress, cyclically blind to peace, just
needs, wants and linking the Mind to genius, hardly
feasible truths breaking the membrane
of paradise, just sterilized creations of End Game.
Let's say, we finally reach our tenth pace
and rather than getting struck with canonry, it just rains.
I've guessed Grace in the past was the way to the Path
but the dualistic nature of that made me change with the fact
that life is simply the exchange of a shameless attack with hatred attached.
They took the ethics of greater ancients and painted them black...

Epilogue: The Last Days
I'm writing now with the hopes to express proof,
that life is just the patching of the holes in your vessel.
The tides of war divide the pure from their lives of peace,
but war exists between more than these rifts in society.

Now is the Hour

Now is the Hour

"Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life."
William Faulkner

Have you ever seen a warship? Not one of the sea but,
a fleet of more than a hundred machines.
Broken silence above what you perceive on the day to day.
Shadows of your future as it wastes away.

The crunch beneath the soles of my boots... such a contrast,
to the pervasive silence after the Hundred Bomb blasts.
I've never known the depths of the abyss until today.
My Earth, an organic cemetery where billions lay.
My first authentic psychological influence... such imprudence:
the image of filling graves. Visions of real decay, obscene.
Any sleep achieved is filled with dreams of wielding blades
fending off legions of demons screeching prophecy:
"this land is destined to be sieged by fiends and noxious beasts!"
It seems... more than a nightmare,
of course I am quite scared... then I awake.

The sun shines brightly, the suburbs rise quickly.
Father's on his commute. Mother's pouring me juice.
Descending the stairs from my bedroom to the kitchen.
News reports about impending doom and conscription.
I've always hated school, but to witness
such panic in the air. Such ambition
from the youth, now seems frantic with despair.
The President speaks, his message complete
with false hopes and propaganda as everyone weeps.
Such a surreal time. Such disorder despite the grind...
unceasing, as people proceed to their nine to fives.
I suppose the times are blind to the change,
until the change manifests and ignites in your face.
It seems... more than a nightmare,
of course I am quite scared... then I should awake?

Alarms blaring: "Fifteen minutes until curfew.
Please return to your homes."
It's hard sharing electricity and water with the entire neighborhood.
My best friend's family insists that they are staying put.
But most of the community has up and just left.
Abandoned house and home before the FEMA infrastructure was set.
I've read stories about marshal law without discussions of threats...
just ambiguous rhetoric from the government, yet...
The evidence amounts: armed soldiers? Incredible accounts
of families missing without a mention or a doubt.
Inevitable? Maybe... some academics had warned
in obscure internet journals about mass eugenics, and of course,
only a month later... reports surfaced of battalions mobilizing,
bomb blasts in the distance, accounts of global violence.

And yet it seems like more than a nightmare.
I used to be quite scared.
But reality is like a bucket of freezing water,
poured over your head, physicality is rediscovered.

Then the first mechanized gate was installed and locked.
Roads used to signify freedom, now all were blocked.

The Creator's Paradox

To You Who Must Be Reading Now:

This is not a history of our culture to celebrate our Greatness,
this is simply a warning: a bit of salt for you to take a grain of:

To speak of this tiny speck of dust floating in the Milky Way,
is to speak underwhelmingly about the scope with which we feel decay.
Beyond the harvests of nature, the planet's most startling feature,
is how easily the balance it achieves can be ardently built and slain.
Progress is the wisp upon the tightrope of the Ether;
we are only Conscious because the Mind's growth wasn't eager.
Our Objects are the winds that could deny Hope.
They evolved with the patience of the Praying Saint.
Us blasphemers should then recognize that we've made mistakes.
With passion compressed to the Quantum core,
something God-like took action and then... concocted war?
The Paradox of Creation.
Whether we're prepared or not we must face it.
Out of the Technocracy comes,
the result of our profits: our guns...
Out of the collective consciousness comes
an out of focus mental storage unit of Vodkas and Rums.
Barbarous crushing of our silent unity.
Flow flushed from the fastened grip of Time's Congruency.
Just take a brief look into the sky and muse with me.
Few can see the Truth when engaged in its demise.
And the End approaches quickly merely playing for its Prize.
Poetics pushed along the Prophet's prudent page.
He speaks to prove the promises he couldn't gauge.
She screams to move the eyes until they look away!
Just peek inside the coffers and you'll see the gold.
To think we could just chain the Massive;
is to overreach with our agenda;
to think we could enslave the Fates:
A simple loop of logic makes us think we can leash the Soul.
But the heart is just the engine.
And the mind is just extension of the Nature we control.

To speak of this gargantuan footprint:
perspective shifting to see the glistening brooks,
yet... concrete fills the void between abstraction and just when
you think you've found a focal point you're distracted by lust,
yet... she's only truly another worker bee in the colony.
Don't test the strength of nature and Flirt with freedom obnoxiously!
A prophecy: it burns to be in its wrath.
This mechanistic circus of circuitry comes complete with a trap:
when you find it embedded so deeply behind your meaningless Mask,
we won't judge you if you choose to take your Liberty and escape.

This is the day God chose to raise the white flag.
Mission: abort.
Mission... abort!

Epilogue:
a fragment left behind by the Prophet:
The rebirth: another born again with sword to flesh.
Let the organ rest, let the poorest get their portions let
the horrors get abhorrent deaths.
Let the forest be enormous, let the orchards be absorbent,
let the fortunes get proportioned into more than sex.
Let the torrents bless the florist, let the gore repent!
Let us Rebuild:
A fort for men to stay the same and fort for men to make the change.
let the cures commence, let the forward stretch and break the chains.
Let us take away the power these elites possess.
Liberty! No cover ups and sneaks to catch!
No suffering or wondering what's to eat or where to sleep
or how our feet stay covered and disease is met
with ample resistance.
And where the beach is clean.
where the breeze is free and the scenery is green.
Pristine: where mammals exist with other animals
brisk... with just a little tangible bliss.

Divided Symmetry

Who is left to tell this tale?

Lost in my vicinity: these walls in my periphery. This is what they call divided symmetry.
Nostalgia-minded... remember we talked just like the friends we seemed?
Since then we've drifted apart.
You returned a changed person as if coming back from a mission to Mars.
Every letter that I scripted embarked into the cosmos.
And every sentiment returned in your empty letters, just not hope.
Without you time froze and I resigned to the depths of me.
I always yearned to express with an ease that I've grown,
but stress is deeply etched in the seams of the blind soul.
Collectively, as memory serves...
your voice a product of my close quarters, reflecting reverb.
The doctors can't tell if they expect to see improvement.
I guess it seems to them that these expressions are delusions.
But how could I pretend to feel this kind of closeness.
I'd rather just be branded with a pathologic diagnosis.
At least then they'd set me free to seek their asymptotic "higher motive."
It's mathematics, and not for lack of practice do I disclose this:
This truth; if only it would pass for madness.
At least then I could live in peace inside my own skin.
But they're convinced that they can offer me the recipe of normalcy.
It's their abyss! I'm on the precipice... the cusp of essences!
If they only knew your love was simply pure energy,
and I would ford the sea... on the barge of broken trust and enmity.
They'd see me toss belief in the wind and rip the sails of the vessel.
O! To leave this existential jail I attend to.
And I intend to...

Deep in the psyche, hold to the strength as it fades.
Perseverance despite the length of the days.
Don't let the disconnect slip your patience away.
With perfect symmetry. A certain mimicry,
through her eyes the pain manifests with hastened decay.

These walls in my vicinity, stalking my periphery.
This is what they call divided symmetry.
Vividly; a mere perception of an image of our"selves:"
reflections of conditions found sufficient to expel...
this canvas; this embedded corpse of forced illusion;
I told you I would cover up the source of all my bruises.
Of course you knew it; you'd see fit that we are not the same.
Your passionate gaze, emphatic, amazed, and fraught with blame.
If the doctors had convinced you I was simply in your brain,
need I state how interesting the pain would be, how quickly I'd refrain,
for each day without you next to me was ecstasy.
The paradox of solitude, freedom to believe in Self.
And yet the struggle of our disconnect releases demons;
swarming minions of depiction. Forced to feel free in Hell!
I've needed peace since they took you from your slumber, then.
And looking into our broken mirror I would wonder when...
you'd return... but your constant pressure to uncover bliss
was just a front, behind your mask a sultry succubus.
"But, I'm asking... how does this make you feel..."
To be honest doctor, I still can't shake the aching heart.
And yet the happiness ensues despite the fact that when we break apart
I feel the tears wet the canvas and drip into the vacant dark.
Dreaming of the geometric nature of depravity:
it seems the more you take from the universe the more the madness creeps.
We are demons. We are focused on our stubborn natures;
and yet this broken mirror suggests a shattered future.

Deep in the psyche, hold to the strength as it fades.
Perseverance despite the length of the days.
Don't let the disconnect slip your patience away.
With perfect symmetry. A certain mimicry,
through her eyes the pain manifests with hastened decay.

It is we. It is I. We are none. We are all.