Struck by a moment, without

etiquette or unit--a man bears

his own resemblance.

His forehead spots him.

To keep in touch.

This wasn't always the case.

Light can do without features.

This is becoming abundantly

clear.

Despite the man, even if

given to it.

Call it a great shift.

The kitchen faucet ran its length

in three parts.

A glistening silver speckled white,

followed by water--then its

detached sound.

It somehow rocked me with how

the world as we know it behaves

in eternal accordance.

Shaking it off shortly after.

I'm a waiting line--a repetitive grand

scheme.

Idle thoughts light each other's candles--

Buddhas line my intestines.

My sight offends karma, even the

darkness behind eyelids creates

pandemonium.

Holiness cuts in front & sometimes lets

me ahead.

Perspectival sin allowed to ooze from the

dots of die I suppose.

As a blind test reveals that only by

going mad, can one gain on the mind.

All I ask is that there's some semblance

of sleep when we fly from bed.

A ghost obsessively launders a sheet--

to be mindful of form, before donning it.

A timeless washing cycle.

As if a solutionless problem lie between.

It narrows down its enormity to a sheet,

because it notices without being noticed.

Despite another form contracting with

fear upon noticing it.

It knows it exists, but one-sidedness

doesn't suffice--it's more a matter of

one-sidedness than loneliness.

Its power of seeing is not met with the

power of being seen.

Disequilibrium haunts the ghost.

Though it's noticed just as much as the

sheet--if not more.

Whereas the sheetless ghost of it--is a

sheet in a more refined realm.

I milk a stewarded greenery's enriched

concentration--then lick a sybil's face.

To tease the topographical

inaccuracies the spirit drafts, ones that

give it character.

Watch an eagle recommence Seeing by

dipping a wing in blood--to mark the

other half of circular flight.

All while ******* a button I didn't

know was missing--as its charming little

void grows reactively.

The ground runs sideways,

like the legwork of a tide carried

away by flowers.

Peopled stems that say it's all a

blur--gain ten pounds of

moonlight when they clarify.

Wearing the look of a spoiled

surprise party.

Planes of adjusting light stack thin--

too slow not to meet crookedly.

A broken window on an apple's cheek,

in line with a branch.

Not a sky in the sky--not even a

shadow's deflated ego, but a far

greater eater.

There's a world left out for just that--

which one exactly?

Would you know a horror movie from

the flashes on a vacant seat?

It's like death taking a pass.

Where letting go, goes.