down with ink

  Noise in the Key of White   meditation minus declaration a phrase absent context mind clouds bright hidden signals digging their way out traveling the tightrope sinewave of birth   sleeping and waking boundaries without borders detectable fluctuations, electrical prayers lengthen but never flatten velocity of thought the spectator sleeps in the spindle’s demise   smooth dive into a jagged and erratic RANDOM EYE MEMORY surfaces without a ripple you never knew you were there paralyzed inside the passage protoconscious futures propel us   trapped in the void crumpled moment of time tide arrives, moon-called and flush line in the sand remains hush of an underwater scream womb-warm and waiting crop circle prison of pregnant design hidden treasures promised given to chase prove farther away than childhood   waking sleep poke holes in attention droplets of sound spread cover the mi...

Branches dying on the vine, end of a line, saying goodbye to humanity, stuck on repeat, another day, an empty mark on time. The canyon beckons, calling for flesh and fury, feeding apologies for the mess death left. Drowning in the debris of dreams, pulling down like a fresh fever, torn out pages, blanks in the story, a life never forgotten but never fully understood. Branches broken, their death mute, voices extinguished, this prison of light never stops burning.

  Peel   Pulling at endlessly phasing funk Strings from a magician's sleeve Lightning in a bottle Smashed against an unforgiving sea Creating a rhythmic message A map leading back to the Source Neuronal paths diametrically conjoined Still, I find myself passing through daylight and dreams absent will.   A psyche in perfect chaos Belies all believed to be true Opposing reverberation foments unison When done within a hermetic contusion Voids within space Between pauses there can be no silence Peeling away galaxies Like layers of sin Without voice or name Everyone feels their bones But does anyone hear?   How many times have I dreamed the same dream? Would I remember? Or am I frozen in the seam? Lost in the place where waves conspire Where emergency doesn’t equal urgency Borrow the time To open my eyes and become A captive catering to illusions Eyes blistered by freedom.   Lightning in a bottle Doe...

           First in Line Communication Dedication Graceful participation Former traditions of dignity Give way to intentional chaos   Racial divide Portraying false data To convince far and wide Create your own myth The devil laughs As we contort in his light   Blind justice dies On the walls we’ve erected Around one another “Come together” Was a lifeline That died on the vine   Science and hopes and viruses ignite Evacuation Eradication Can you see his disease? The devil laughs Distorting the fight   We don’t have to live this way Stay inside to fight another day Throw open the bird box Lift up your lies Eyes wide open To a death that never dies   When the dilation of liberty Is shoved down the throat Of a rabid dog And the beast turns to bite I’ll be the first in line

Time Nothing is the infinite abyss eating its own tail consumption of time not a straight line exiting where we begin. Time created is a false shore we can never stop creating more moments we can only fill them or leave them empty. The scales of time click by in unmeasurable pulses too small or too vast even death is powerless against its venom. In Memory of Nikki A.

Schisautomaton I hear a feather falling crackling quantum shift      implosion of diametrical beauty breaking sunlight each barb infiltrating fibers of sight spinning a thousand years of deception into my temple in one psychosomatic second. Liberty, Justice, Death all three are lies each one a point on the triangle of Oppression an ever-open eye cloned into our patchwork culture feeding as much as seeing, seething with the sounds of OUR        gnashing teeth. The children become aware and give voice but the crest of the wave flatlines long before reaching shore. Tectonic shift/History ends Drowned out by Liberty, Justice, Democracy until all that can be heard are the crickets of the credits. The audience is long gone. In fact, they were never listening. The film turns into random 1’s and 0’s devoured by the cancerous mouth of the past - Rewritten. Snakes strike from cal...