Dark bullet

Darkest dance

U were here

Then U weren’t

It felt like a blink

and lingered on in

- Memoria -

unrefined

Trauma

Raw salt

of the dirt

Stigma(ta), 24/7

then…

- Automata -

Nightmares

Flashbacks

Sleeplessness

Cogs to Fog

Mourning tears

Anniversaries

passed away

Nearest and Dearest

1/2 safe, 1/4 safe

then not at all

Promises made

for a better

tomorrow

.declined.

Grief

Stricken

is (a) (the) world

that spins on

Hope

- Tipping point -

the

Burden

of dust

…i held on…

for as long as i could

the death mask visited

It spilled out from a hidden wound

It swallowed my purpose

It smothered my vitality

The meaning of “time”

became a

Virus

Trauma

Stress

Vulnerability

Circumstance

Anti-Volition

Worn down

Distress: Psychological, Physical, Emotional

Disillusion

Hopelessness

Entrapped

(- )Escape (+)

Liberation

Freedom

Stillness

Nothingness

Emptiness

Oneness

Wholeness

Oblivion

Peace

June 27/23

…Yama

Liminal space

i have known despair…

in the hum of samsara’s vowels

Echos of a weary rattle snake

Songs of a headless bird

…aAaeEeiIioOouUu…

i sense hematite swaying to and fro

A crossroads to the winged pendulum

The Boulder falls into its trench

“Altered beast” trudges alone

Today, it begins again

…Yama…

Liminal space

i have known despair…

in the hum of samsara’s vowels

Echos of a weary rattle snake

Songs of a headless bird

…aAaeEeiIioOouUu…

i sense hematite swaying to and fro

A crossroads to the winged pendulum

The Boulder falls into its trench

“Altered beast” trudges alone

Today, it begins again

…Yama…

Liminal space

i have known despair…

in the hum of samsara’s vowels

Echos of a weary rattle snake

Songs of a headless bird

…aAaeEeiIioOouUu…

i sense hematite swaying to and fro

A crossroads to the winged pendulum

The Boulder falls into its trench

“Altered beast” trudges alone

Today, it begins again

Yama…

March 15/23

The perceiver, the outer viewer, & the inner seer. Life & death. Heads and tails. Dichotomies (as well as the same). The coin with its infinite dimensions, is “perceived” as one dimension from the perceiver. On one side, there’s heads. On the other, there’s tails. The coin is “perceived” as a sliver when heads and tails appear parallel on each side. When the perceiver looks directly at the coin, all sides of the coin cannot be seen at once in its entirety. If the perceiver is too close and not aware that the “perceived” is a coin, the perceiver draws from “memoria” and creates assumptions of what it might or might not be. If the perceiver is too far ahead, staring past the vanishing point, the perceiver cannot see the coin. This instills uncertainty (fear). With inquiry, the perceiver becomes the outer viewer (the witness) and acknowledges the coin as an entity that can be manipulated in three dimensions. If the coin is tossed into the air, parts of each side can be glanced at for moments at a time. With further inquiry, the outer viewer holds “memoria” in which the sliver side of the coin can also be acknowledged as the center of heads and as the center of tails. The outer viewer becomes aware that if the coin is spun quickly (like a ball on its axis), it appears as a sphere and fuller than it really is. The outer viewer becomes the inner seer as the coin is held in awareness in its moving state. The inner seer holds awareness that the self and the coin are dichotomies and of the same. The inner seer holds awareness that culture forms a breath of connection but does not exist in wholeness but as separate selves for as long as “memoria” is perceived, manifested, and held as wanton emotion. In solitude, the inner seer holds attention to sensing, stillness of emotion, and accepts “memoria” as it is. Without acceptance, the host implodes. It does not exist in wholeness. In solitude and in culture, the perceiver, the outer viewer, the inner seer, and the coin are dichotomies, as well as the same, with separate sides, made from the same material. Forward and back. Temporary and infinite… An illusion.

Aug 18/22

On borrowed time, my shadow corpse clings heavily into concrete nooks of pavement, and then morphs into bouncy cats. It stops and reappears. vanishes… and reappears. It’s normal now… Deterioration… This sound held down by a knee on the throat… Vishuddha… i’m a burden. so stupid and worthless. Becoming crickety… growing more impatient…. so tired. More ugly… more grotesque…over a human-constructed timeline. Patterns don’t lie. An appearance (illusion) of substance and concrete (real) when the collective consciousness “ascribes” and agrees that this belief is cannon. God, are you shoveled into a Sisyphus-like gutter (figuratively)? Is this a reflection in ur image? Human fleshy bagel with holes. 99 point something % chimpanzee... Sustentante (meds) in/feces out. Is there a semblance of rationality? Pinch ur cigarette fingers or be killed. Filthy. Lungs in/Lungs out. 2 pots of coffee. Why not end it all? Can’t make sense of these things. i’m stOOO(Out Of Office)pid… i hate myself. Chop off my brain. Cut out my heart. Grief-stricken in waves 🌊... Piercing senses into chronic tinnitus… crickety bones… expired sinew and muscle… Evisceral hanging fat… open wounds (not healing) slathered in steroids… human bloody misery… screamy and shrilly… Coping: A temporary cessation of minor discomfort into a build-up of constructed, static, fleeting “happiness”. Management of tears and snot. Tired. Anti-climactic. Banal sentient being. A blip in billions of galaxies… Not even close… Nested egg in silence. Running down a sliver. slighting through the foliage. Silent light surrendered. Drowning fowl in river. On and through and under. Brightest day delivered. Soil as eyes for quivers. Most alone with people. Most at home asleep…please Kill me… No peace to sleep.. 988… 741741… my vértigo head hurts… so pukey. It’s spinning 😵‍💫 won’t stop. Meow… the shadows reappear… Kill me… i miss u so much but Ur dead… can’t hug U in this lifetime. Kill me… Can’t take things back…. Helpless memories… no future memories… makes me wanna die. RIP but there’s no piece … it’s too late. (AAA) (triple A) Avolition… Anhedonia… Alogia… A river of red wine empties into the bottomless debt… cut to HYPERDRIVE… Getting things done while dying… Who will care for the cats? i’m sorry XaXa. i’m sorry Kali. I’m sorry Sassy (the fish). Living Will… Donate organs… DNR… junky distractions… Loss of vitality. Must push forward… Please let me go… Snaky hair, severed floaty head, glistening behind a smiley masque... Someone’s at the door:

Knock… Knock. Whose there? How are “u”? I’m good ☺️ How are “U”? Same. 🤭🤞Namaste.

Shimmering hopelessness. Chronos to Kairos. Cellular death.

🃏

December 5/22

Flotsam and Jetsam. Where’s the joy from the smoke of a cigarette? When the paper disintegrates into ash, the taste of despair on parted lips is left to bare. The ghost’s journey begins from the shipwreck’s stern, travels along the starboard’s horizon, and out from the glowing, mandarin bowsprit. As muted steam, It imprints a record that yellows my nails (a peace sign of the middle and ring finger). It mimics a mudra played daily with a gesture solely from the middle finger. Fuck you! This slow burn endures on the derelict’s visage and veers on to the lifeless bathroom floor.

My matted hair, unwashed for days, splays against the porcelain throne. It’s bowl, an inverse crystal ball, looks into my mind’s eye (piss, shit, blood, and tears stain the well of its inner root sheath). Salvage from the SS Parliament floats sparingly on the surface of the lake under the sea under the ocean. Lagan, in a heart-shaped cocoon lingers below 7 miles of trench. Blip. Blip. Blip. Smell of a matchstick struck twice. Drip. Drip. Drip. Kraken the whip on these gashes thrice.

Inside the window, time stands still. A glaze of derealization washes over my eyes. i look down and see open wounds that don’t heal. Excoriation. Subduction. Face unflinched. Cauterized. No oxygen. Not a single blink. The hull’s corrosive implosion doesn’t hurt. Where are the angels with their gilded trumpets? i look up into the light, begging for transfiguration. Mercy does not shine in the Hadal zone. There is no treasure. There is no charity. There is survival. Gnawing. Uncertainty. Agony. Decomposition. Contradiction. Separation. God’s illuminated portrait. Eat and be eaten.

Outside the window, sounds of Sirens fade in and out in the distance. The bustling leaves of autumn rattle from the wind. Hammering and construction is under way. Something’s being built or torn down. The bees are pollinating. The birds are chirping and the breeze is breezing. Children are giggling. Joyful sensations. Somewhere, it’s a beautiful day, today.

November 9/22

<\3<\3<\3

This vessel had been shattered in slow motion and over a lifespan. Grief glued together in increments made of hope. It looks like a vase, but it is still rubble. The cracks are visible. Majestic cogs are missing. Irreplaceable. Water is added every day. By moonrise, gravity empties its bowels.

Sometimes flowers are placed into the vase to give it a semblance of life. Sometimes a Rose. Sometimes a Lily. But mostly whatever was thought to be beautiful at a given moment. U loved all flowers!

By the 1st day, bloom is at its kindest. Radiance emanates from the crown. Sahasrara! The bottom of the stem is hidden. No one is allowed to see it.

By the last day, the flower succumbs to time… Brittle and slumped over. A halo hovers above its mortal shell. U are free!

Every gracing year, my tears accumulate and detach. i cannot allow myself to swallow the petals once worn as a sigil of comfort… Sun of joy. (M)oon (O)f (M)issing.

i used to hate flowers and now i love them. In memory of U, i must let go.

<3<3<3

“I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return” — Frida Kahlo