Arboreal

Night arboreal apes.
Limbs. Dead limbs, knowledge - we are apes.
Isn't that obvious. Yes it is.

Play with instinct. Trust yours and see theirs.
They gave it away
A dream
A fantasy built from fragmented information
To see
To hear
To smell
Touch the surface. The skin.
Zero dimension
What does it all add up to?
A pretty little simulation run by
Software. Patched up.
The Tower of Babel
The Apple
It's overkill
A rampant virus
Sucking it dry
For the sake of a stupid make believe game.
Is there any other way?
Not really,
We are just a step.
The next step can be whatever we want it to be.
A string of fuzzy bits collapsing,
Made un-fuzzy

Oxygen

as we grow older
the world becomes stranger
this is where I begin
if I could figure
why I'm big sinner
why I waste my time
in between sentences
that's where I've lost my mind
I can see the cycle
in a half circle coffee stain
there's rust in my brain
that's mostly the oxygen
counting the ways that somehow
don't matter at all
this is where I end
in the middle of nowhere
it's only small comfort
for those in my wake
this is where I end

Fusion

The thoughts of the afternoon were liquid in their beauty
the far way penny popping stranger walks along the roadside
I tell you, the air shifts in hills and valleys and you hear
The colors are a drip drip drip away from being real
But it's all fake, it's all a lie, a big drip drip way
A faint smile way, it's not as dark as you think
it's darker still, it's dark as rain, dark as thermonuclear fusion
offered as a distraction, a way to fight time.

Breathe

Keep your head above the water and breathe, big deep breaths. I feel strange these days. Like any day, any minute, something terrible'll happen. Fatalism is not good for the morale. I want freedom, yet I shackle myself. Go figure, it's the old cliché: I'm my own worst enemy. Life is life is life and there ain't nothing else, so get used to it. That's it. There should be something more, but no. I know. I'm just human, it's normal to want to be God. Almighty. To shit thunder and lightning. But no. I'm small. And yet: I am everything. I feel strange these days. The past is two dimensional. A narrative with blurry pictures and film. The future is black or white, never any shades of grey, it's hope and despair, it's either/or. Just two compartments. Cynicism is the denial of hope, even though it's there. The present, this minute, this second, is a dream. A fancy patchwork of colors and shapes and emotions. Try telling me you had a choice, back then. Making a list of what you've done. I'm not sure anymore. I'm an old lab rat. Conditioned. Bury me in an old shoe box. Flush me down. I feel strange these days.