We Harm Ourselves

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This isn't me,
well,
it is, but not,
for in this story, you must live between existence,
not in you, and not in me,
but in us.

In our gravitational minds, let us travel,
far from here, to near the ends of human rationalization,
where glasses clink together,
as rivers of human voices flow,
in and out, of each-other,
like sex.

Here, some people stand and lean, while others sit,
slouched, while smiling, and nodding to their friends,
flicking a cigarette maybe, while mumbling,
as the sun pokes down with transparency,
through the branches of leafless mahoganies,
in a world that is so simple,
that it cannot exist but in complete perfect-oddity,
without a flux of mind, so softly is a smile, ripe.

Yet, through all of the brass hats and hair,
a young man sits, in the back
with a stale stare,
as we pass, all of his friends but him, share a laugh.

In this thought of a world,
or in this mess of a thought,
the heavy smoke of the perfect speech around him lifts,
beyond the barriers of his care, his long face, extends nowhere.

Perhaps we are all, just one oddly numbered consciousness,
who lives through billions of minds,
through one large multi-dimensional eye,
or perhaps we are all
just a collective of electron movements,
who pass signals through one another
to create one ultimate social thought.

Either way, we all live in a world that has and will,
exist long before and after us.
And in this moment, that is propped up by our mere awareness of life,
by our ability to create this one moment,
that extends throughout our entire lives,
and throughout our ancestor's and into our decedent's minds,
we live as one small incidental phenomena,
that is expressed by the length of one single perfect little line,
that we measure,
and we measure again,
and measure,
and we measure again,
and we measure ourselves,
as we measure everything,
until it's unified,
until we are,
unified,
into a stare.






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