Poems

“How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.”

--David Foster Wallace

Grasping for plans to place upon chaos,

And consistently distressed

When a seventy year long psychedelic trip,

Fails to conform to the linguistic confines,

Our feeble ape brain

Places upon it...

I kiss your back while we sway

In and out of sleep,

The waves of unconsciousness lapping at our brains,

Wet drags of lips across

The nape of your neck...

Is anxiety a measure of regret?

Or of things unaddressed?

We live adrift in ape avatars sharing reality,

Blurting out utterances from meat holes,

That are somehow supposed to convey

Enlightenment,

Consciousness, the Suchness and the Void,

Of all the things that exist behind our eyes,

That we call “me...."