scream, it is an octave higher – then hear.

the pattering of feet: sure way to have command

over free will; made to sound more grand that what it is,

and what it is, you’re not going to want to hear this, shoo off

if you’re into that positive talk crap. i can’t help thinking that

too is a trap. a human’s warped sense of who he is rubs at the wrong

foot each time, changing seats to encourage good luck

while touching wood. though nothing is evaporated, the solid firmness

registers in the mind as waves through synapses. it is a miracle

whoever conjured of this design. so obvious of my surrounds that i slammed

right into an optic nerve. i was electrified to find myself speaking

through space – it is deeper, more mysterious than any mind can envision,

envision their own duplicitous electricity fires off at will, and in some parts

of that dark mass: pulsing so extreme; i ached, wrenched, tore myself from

that spectacle. it was horrendous, mean, and futile, the many ghost from

photos left behind, the ink has evaporated, not the change yearned for with

that switching, sitting on another warm seat. it gets warmer, then

the frog is cooked. maybe not positive for the green frog now black.

soot rubs off the skin, think wafer of fat (frog had a decent life), i blinked

then when i fell flat on my space in a frozen pond, my jaw cracked, a tooth

fell out and grew roots to live forever. forever is that timeless space where

the vibrating monster collapses. unable to receive even the faintest of waves

from nearby friends, it had come to trust. it saw the self from past and future,

unable to reconcile the past with the future, it began to hum in a disconcerting

voice which causes a pang of longing and i wasn’t sure if i was becoming part of

the monster that never could talk. only rage. only cool off. then the lights began to

appear when i found myself talking to spectacles whom never became part of my

future, the fear had evaporated and left on a mess. and what a mess it had to be,

those loathsome fumes still stunk the air – i wrinkled my nose, and the turn

on the tables began where i saw past giving me a wave. a wave that doubled over

into an avalanche, hit me in the gut. i bellowed. help. then the past pricked me with

a thorn, then i could see that all the stock i had put into this melting pot really

did not end how reality gets the wrinkles out when the hot iron flattens against

my wrinkled nose no longer able to smell the roses. just dung. and the nearby friends

suddenly fell into my arms; i had gone too far and my arms no longer belonged to me.

so i watched in fogged memory if the person in my arms was the friend i never

could catch; they say the fault is in the musical chairs, all of them eager to make their

own soprano. it does not end there. their voices go the heavens, i am no longer sure

why the person in my arms feels dead. there is no more emitting waves, finding

myself hoarse, the person sitting on my is way too hot. i begin to shiver, to try and

move those solid arms away, could not. the many tries, the many music being made

could not compare. to the many futures that never came about, while the throbbing monster

wailed. not fair! and of course that was true, so much energy gone to waste.

then the explosion came about, the heat so intense. the many eyes

closed as if the life had suddenly become stolen once again,

sleep and the river lithe rushed down a railroad, eliminating every home,

each dweller torn to bits, still i could not find myself to argue

against the many dozing nods that spelt a dark omen – it was now or never,

this strange road to nirvana, the samsara must end. the nods approve,

my hanging head – and still the rushing river is felt

where men and beast alike have come to a settlement.

it was the music that never fell on – that lost star,

whose receiving ear could find some solace, receptive mode

and then i found myself wrapping the statue that was me,

flung it to the furthest land out there, out where? where

was just these electricity making random pulses, seems too much

pressure normally wounds up the valve. the merchant began

to smile. placed his bets on the next round of cards,

and god forbit. that this time round, maybe – just maybe

a tarzan would emerge. you know these electric currents

never used to flow like this, this torrent of lava entering the heavens,

and heaven has to deem it unfit. unfit that all the posturing,

all the pleading, all. it all just came down to little gods

unaware of the time space distance it takes when a little music

never gets to reach the nearest star.