A circular muscle surrounds
all-things the Euthyphro dilemma, so
Hume is where the heart is

siphoned, swept up & away
like Plato inventing the first alarm
clock, a fleck touch

& a surface of whitelight
receptories in the Waking Hour.
Now, I say, crank up your soul, dear,

because the jukebox is still playing
like a late 19th century Phenom
who could sing with his sphincter.

Don’t be scared of poetry: don’t be
scared of where poetry may lead.
As with anything, it depends on one’s

druther, with thoughts to follow, like:
Do paramedics ever dislodge heads
from asses?
Only ask in Poetics, bc

No, no one, except the one
controlling the strings, controlling

the 8-ball, somewhere where the
sidewalk never ends, but Look,
I don’t want you to get offended

but weird things happen when
you’re dragging like a slug, baking
in the dragon-breathing summer sun

of a tightening yellow balloon knot
in the esophagus—deathly, like
some plutonic relationship

where your body, soul & mind
are pulled through clotted kinks
hammering you through the murk.

Perpetual chip on the shoulder?
Suspicion is never quiet?
Eyebrows raised, but licking

your lips is the contemporary way
to paint the perfect romantic picture
because Michelangelo was a minion

& should have lived in the Now
instead of the Then?
I am coming undone. 

Secrets reveal themselves
in dark holes but not everything
has to be clandestine. Voices

trapped in jars that your ancestors
still feel. I am those jars
without the lids fastened.



Eye balancing on the whole shebang.
Shebangs cognitively good-nosed tug
On m’heartballoon bc Time’s wasting
Away on odor-scent of wonderlanding. 
Wonderlanded cortex of olfactoring.
Sensory glancing is a muscle of aging.
Metaphorical lightning begins flashing
After ominous speech. Robots denying
That they’re robots.  Eyes syncopating,
Frozen to the eye-piece of a quivering
Telescope. Mind in a Medieval setting:
Theaters where toes tiptoed, inhaling
Torch-smoke. My identity, just jawing
With Archaic swerve. Prehistoric singing
I exist in, hums of mental housekeeping.
Aging of linear backward imagining.
Plots loosen foam of thicklessening.
Anthropomorphic fusions comparing
Paradoxes memorialized in testifying.
Seeing larger objects: maggot defying
Grass. Smaller, transparent nothings
Agglomerated in bibbles of xertzing.
Martyr of the Lilt of Things, reversing
Rejection by axing an axis, collapsing
The mock effigy of cultural trampolining.


Naked ungovernable
cahoot. Human ebbing,

desire evanescing,
exactly feckless, frail, in

-flexible transparent
spirit-plucking plectrums.

We are all abstract
mathematicians, sky of

tissue tempt to tear
the year away: can’t win

for losing. Nothing to lose,
bruise the fuse, inclued puzzles

included in the eye of
the aggravated aggregate. Agape

is the tune, anxious teeth
clinched, [sic] or sick

dogs of dialectique
sicking them onto

my mind’s lips of crisis ellipses
to awaken in a portrait of wholly snip.