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.
I was roaming
in the corridors of my introspection
and tripped over a dusty repentance,
and lost a flashlight.
I’m lost, – I admit!
In this maze of
and secret chambers,
and doors leading to nowhere.
I should have applied for a dispensation,
but I was too arrogant
to fill out the form.
The moment when some will learn
how to grow wings,
as their new limbs;
they’ll immediately spread them wide
and fly high to the sky;
and without having any bleak hue of guilt
will shit on the heads of those
who propagate potato-existentialism.
without any bleak hue of guilt, —
Yes, I am patient.
I can calmly wait in the line to urinals,
and mumble “God’s gonna cut you down”,
while you’re struggling with your neglected prostatitis.
I can wait,
while the coldness of the restroom
is embracing my quiddity;
putting me in the center of the Universe
or its outskirts.
(depends on a ventilation).
I’m not Johnny Cash,
I’m not wearing black
I wasn’t blessed with calm bass-baritone.
but I can wait,
without knowing people’s faces
behind the toilet doors
or their shivering bodies
making a gestalt image of a macrocosm
(again, depends on a ventilation).
or only an exosomatic memory, —
recorded on the misted mirror.
and you will stand from the other end
of the line,–
where the words are disintegrating
where the transience is becoming the only meaning
for the unsaid.
and I will write you my invocations,
avoiding periods at the end
of the sentences.