implosions, there is
too much to see and hear,
all in all too much to comprehend
if it ever seems not enough, keep piling the wooden lettered blocks
stack the useless thoughts in an organized manner
filing away the days, the noise, the nonsense
fashion a non-self, that is what you are
pay no mind to what is matter
a proclaimed illusion, abandoned delusions
exeunt reality, so somewhere far off in imagination
explosion would be a definite possibility
and memory, not at all an option
as a geyser, streaming into space
interpret these words, which have become numbers
hurdle over and burrow under
sense of self, detached;
fluent, like a river
silent, as the mountains'
geometric peaks
chaos in confinement when i fare well not to speak
acknowledging the unseen forces at work
to make all moments what they are.
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