.

So in dripping caramel on the

Canvas mirage,
Red hair breaching silver
To bulwark her feet
Which sit in slippers
Miming the clock’s pace,
.
She is too ready to give,
And who
Would look at her hands there,
Her hips so ready to
Imbue another,
Her breasts so ready to feed.
.
In starred nighttime,
Her silhouette
Embarks upon
The concoction,
The madness of a new child,
Mercy born, to feed.

And so filled with images,

We feel our bloods race
To crawl unbeknownst
Along floorboards of
The well lit movie theaters,
The dark ones brushed out of cerebrum
For occlusion by sun.
.
Trust in this frenzy
And choose between good and evil,
But my friend,
Choose early.

Who of course populated

This world a harlot stream
Imbibing sun rays
And playing with your toy trucks
Out on the street
With the big trucks,
Trusting them not to hit you,
Your mother’s yelling,
You hear it,
She was a brat kid,
So futile then and so futile now,
Thinking,
Those other parents,
They wouldn’t be good at this.

Many people hate life, and the objective of existence on this earth has often become to scourge, to exercise a totalitarian rule within moments of interpersonal miscellany. Ironically, I’m going to argue that it’s because of “soul” that this is the case. That is, it’s because of the word “soul.”
Or rather, the antipathetic tactic toward vituperation and malice so many people see as fitting is related to the same spiritual dearth that harbored the invention of the word “soul” — it’s the attempt to will something into existence that simply isn’t there.
There is absolutely no way that any discussion of a person’s “soul” could be anything but a waste of time. First of all, being as it is a “spiritual entity,” per dictum, its delineation necessarily requires divine assessment — it takes God himself to evaluate a “soul,” even in theory, to say much less of the word’s clumsy injection into everyday situations. And being that the “soul” is ideally the ultimate individual benchmark, it would seem that its mention in commonplace scenarios would follow as the ultimate relinquishing of this purported value, rendering this “pure” entity more as a quantifiable commodity for the trading.
Unless, of course, we’re supposed to use our “brains,” brain being the trustworthy, doglike farmhand of the “soul,” and denote actual things on this earth that make us happy, entranced or glued in.
Alan Watts delivers an interesting and compelling passage on human uniquenesses in The Book: On the Taboo against Knowing Who You Are: “Every individual is a unique manifestation of the Whole, as every branch is a particular outreaching of the tree” (72).
It’s mostly just static noise in this life, and those who would take themselves seriously enough to propagate their “soul” serve to deny this very thing, and relinquish the opportunity to celebrate the fact that this life is mostly just static noise, relishing in the experience of immeasurable bounty in someone’s eyes, as waves crash on the Gulf of Mexico.

Well, you never went for it when you were younger,

And now here you are bemoaning the loss of it as you get older,
All the while in a world you fit in like a screw cap,
Messing up changing a
Tire when the polar ice caps
Jibed too early.

My very desire

For the transcendence of a sentient agent
Suggests a certain deformity,
.
As I consider
My own futuristic,
Cellulose vision
Among the copper dandelions,
A vision I
Disguise as sunlight.

Truths come resplendent

For the human mind
In function —
.
Truths climb
Torsos in groves
Aloud with the maples
Which drive you mad
By evading your hand.

It’s all a game but oh

The game is what
Makes it a splendor,
Being kissed by sunlight
In the only order that
Is disorder, the things
Proven to satiate
The same to
.
Snipe. The tunic
Of responsibility
You wear begins when you’re
Sitting there as an offspring and
Just giving, giving that
Gold light
That you have
As a young child
And then to pile up
Ploys, gestures,
Mimicries and compensations,
Like Christmas
.
Tree ornaments
After the
Nadir, and
So we wander.

How I could use a woman tonight

To relieve me of my misery
On this night when sleet patters the roof
And wind whips the branches into a damned dry tizzy,
A woman wise and glaring
In garish brown lipstick
Crouching in a plaid top
And jeans,
A woman’s whole body
Just to come and swoop in
On this night
Giving herself vermillion respite
And all the glory in the world,
All the virtue bestowed by birds,
Sure.

Born a young branch

By society,
.
If you were to be coerced,
It would oversee
In the painted horizons
The thousands of moanings
Your belly felt of hunger,
The correctness imbued from your parents’ eyes
Drawing your fits into the fledgling.