I cannot comprehend the thinking of others,
their symbolics and demarcations,
dressed in their effete stigmata,
flowing in Babel’s river
to the sea.
And now it’s my turn
to ask the questions.
What was tokenized?
What was taken
by whom and when?
Are they androids, and am I?
But I won’t face the truth,
only transform it, and if I do
it will be the day before yesterday,
When it storms outside, the weather
transgresses my brittle defenses,
already crazed with cracks
and sealed with flour and water.
When I hold myself a certain way,
translaterally, it means I’m caught
in the shimmering web of pointlessness,
wandering through the wisps of whisper grass
in pensive futility, in formless pensitivity,
where the unstructured cannot wear away
the sharp edges of unforgetting.
I know now that I was never the survivor.
The one who was, in glorious independence
of sodden desire, is amused at my
ten hours of coffee shop background
on looping playback, its clinking crockery
and murmured conversations.
When someone is reduced to static,
willfully a shadow in a crowd, they’re lost to us.
For those who were in that coffee shop:
a strange immortality.
A River and Other Symbols, NikonD90 photo evolved by the visual evo engine, my software that seeks unimagined realms. 8K original image = 4 UHD screens, from the ultracubist engine. Art on Instagram four days per week.
purpose of reality
The Purpose of Reality short story and poetry volumes are now available for preorder at the Meerkat. They come with bonus digital artwork. Here is the link.