—given the torc of carnal resumings
which gnash my fibrous night-time musings
from the loom of fonted wisdom
and a wheel of word conversions—
the miser in my mental montage,
like a spoke fleeing speeds
that reel within muscled spin,
gates his ripe profusion,
compounding paradoxic lingual grin
in working meanings thin
between what worldly threads proceed.

ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn

She saves me/
Oh how she saves me/
She makes me/
She brings my eyes to rest/
Her memory fills my emptiness up, just enough, to turn away all the demons/

She breaks me down/
Oh how I do too/
We both have our problems/
And those problems hate the thought of “us”/
Everytime, no matter what said, we never split, we know our codependence/

I am not a love poet/
I think myself too down for pure love/
You know, Love, that we are pushed and pulled by those around/
That they doom us for our very love/

And we are saved by eachother/
We will be the death of eachother/
They will rip us into pieces the second they find proof/
But can we let that hate, be a constant reminder of how strong you hold on to me /
And how strong I’ll hold on to you?/

She really does make me/
She will never not be warming my mind/
She is going to be the death of me/
And I love her for that

Private worlds expand as we contract--

it begins by thinking of a number &

telling the mind to guess.

A highly ambitious paranoia, a do over

for every correct guess.

Four hands & a gazillion fig leaves later--

here we are, as if denying accusation.

As privacy self-edits for lay readership,

readership is at an all-time low, because

everyone is too busy self-editing.

It seems like heros/heroines barely set

foot on terra firma, before these private

worlds are unceremoniously destroyed.

These gameshow windows lit by private

residences.

I believe this to be telepathy-pains, the

paradoxic response of our collective

doubleness to thwart the internet.

What was once relegated to the realm of

private, is now public--so interiority is in

hyper drive.

Big Brothers & Sisters--toilet bowls must

remain sacrosanct!

Eventually, Idios kosmos will implode

inward--& become symbiotic, fiber optics

is just the safety net of cross-cultural

telepathy.

This doesn't mean I'm going to whip my

**** out & bang a bongo anytime soon.