we got slammed with illness
on the day of your mother’s death
and we couldn’t find where she left
her last agonizing breath–

instead we laughed and cuddled,
kissed and reconciled.

*

Gogol was a madman but he wrote 
words I could relate to my own mind.
Does that make me a madman as well?
Or is this dilemma as Kafkaesque
as it is meaningless?
Who cares if you are mad
if your writing moves and makes men glad.

*

Entrenched in stone,
the loneliness of god.
His nakedness before us in the deepest rounds
of inner space–
contemplation will not bring satisfaction
if you seek god and godliness. 

listen to your bowels instead.

*

dreamers alert to the christening of death.
we see only that to which we are reconciled in the final take.
like cinema, all is meant to be fake.
death like a dog howls in the streaming times
during the crisis of our amends.
the world togetherness does not glisten like a knife blade.

the agencies in control do not know 
what they are controlling
so conspiracy abounds 
in the homes of bearded angels. 

we a equidistance to the poise of our grandeur,
in gradients of chaos and sleeplessness.

as civilization rots from it interior complexities,
all else is immersed in reversing the totality. 

*

baptize me in the rivers of your loins
when you seek separation.

i only ask for the silence 
to offer its reparations.

*