I almost failed to remember
my obligation to see myself
withdrawing from my mental exile
in a self induced coma.
a State of the Union
All buses are sponsored
and waiting under the bridge
away from the Eye of the Beholder
away from the Thunderstorm of Hail and Fire.
The path to the dystopian future
is laid out through the parting of mind.
(Sea of Reeds)
Don’t jest and perform miracles
while stuck in limbo
frozen in salto mortale
over abyss of self awareness.
My intentions and my goings
are on the constant opposite paths.
I thought they’ll schematically look like wings,
but they looked more like cockroach antennas,
I thought they’ll annihilate,
when they’ll collide behind, —
lifting me up to the Celestial Spheres.
Yet, they didn’t, —
they are only dangling like a court-jester hat.
and at the end
we’ll find out that all this time
this long saga was only an asymptote–
any turns we took,
were pretty much meaningless curvature.
A quintessential cello
a subatomic blues is disintegrating
from its body.
touching primal strings,
causing the time to change its direction.
He is creating worlds,
while I am enjoying his music;
with my meaty ears and
standing behind the glass wall,
observing constriction workers:
walking through the building sky-rise scaffolding,
raining the welding spatters
riding the elevator:
up or down.
it is raining outside–
grey water and glowing spatters.
the smoke is mixing with the cars honking
and the after-hours drunken bonding.
a Mid-Town West,
but I’m still standing behind the glass wall–
in a fishbowl longing.