On days when I am not human,
my hypothetical portfolio
of optimistic control is buried
in La plaça del Diamant,
but my words become
strategic maneuverings
of language which is itself nothing
but largely united recurring dreams
which has perhaps entered
into my bloodstream
travelling like a finite game
at lightspeeds; pure phosphor dots,
one extravagant cycle
that repeats itself as if
in a moment of liberation.
ii.
On days when you are not human,
haystacks & distant woodlands
burn like bullfighting.
iii.
Elsewhere,
my spring has unfurled,
has been long delayed
but patience is the thing
which carries us
note by note to our
flower-strewn meadows
without ever reaching
a moment of open conflict
that is all equipped
with surrealistic Urphänomen,
but where Interference Patterns
coalesce; where our unruly
childish alien-like doppelgängers
mock our humanity
with a sustained F sharp.
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