The problem with epiphanies Is they wear off. By definition Their magic Must dissipate. The overwhelming delight Of understanding Eventually gives way To the dull thrum of living. And you wonder Is it better to know The epiphany’s fleeting ecstasy Knowing the hollowness Once it’s gone? Or is it better To live in ignorance Of that which Now evades you?
I, 15 years elder the century, weathered the broke-brawned shelter of millennia. The diamond dust which glistened the middle 20th, now micro-incisions the skin and teeth, makes rags of lungs. Colonial, they say we were better. But now post, we look at the masses, zombie-tired, broodbloods’ eternal shuffle. Nostalgia for sickly things permeates to a time when future existed. Rotary phones and VHS grain stipple YouTube longings. Feast! Feast! Ye hungry eye. Ye huddled mass! Yearning for 30 day free trials! The end of history came too soon.
What strange alchemy happens in those boiling shells that renders the soft soup of embryo to a hardened jelly? Any scientist who claims to know this process is a liar and a con artist. The mysteries contained within the walls of that brittle housing aren’t meant for our understanding. If a human were to grasp the mechanisms of a boiling egg, they would immediately reach Nirvana and transcend the material plane. I keep my boiled eggs in a plastic bag, moistened by steamy condensation from the cooking process. That way the eggs feel at home. It’s like they never left the shell. I take all the broken shells from years back and construct a great and beautiful man-sized shell. I incubate my dreams in the shell. That’s where I live.
if we are living we are not made of stone. our bones are not broken yet. we’ve made our houses in the shade and our blankets are dry for now. we dream of drinking light and our shadows turn to bricks with which we construct new libraries and all the books are made of our best stories our best shelves
puddles splash forever light crawls into pores the sun is only softness and never shades of brutality.
all business dies. all business dies. and the curse of commerce is lifted
She’s asleep in bed dreaming of charging demons and sugar plums or whatever it is she dreams
I’m a night creature now to escape the demands of the day where all the sickness of the sun swelters clammy flesh to stinking and the garbage takes on new molecular forms to perfume the neighborhood with coffee grounds and dead diapers I’m allergic to the ultra-violent Texas rays
In a few hours the solar climb begins skyward and I will climb into bed where I will dream of cities made entirely of dumpsters I can’t stop dreaming of trash. It washes in– tidal and soils everything pure.