Standing in the bathroom by a porcelain brink
looking crosswise in the mirror over the sink
noticing how far back this reflection goes
hardly anybody left worth a damn even knows
and the rest dropped off what's beginning to look
like a long time ago now and by that I mean already
marked in the pages of this printed out book.

So we bought an old house and entered the game
of war against the mouse of our division and name
buried in a long story that tore through our lives
to say the least at a minimal pace and it thrives
to this day without having to come out and state it
point blank the rift from smooth talking beast
to furry four-pawed friend continues without end
possessing each and every one of us who made it.

To trigger each other's passages as if we're one and all
encoded to be held in thrall swaying to the music
of the alternating staves getting edited genetically
along the superconductive way so that frenetically
everyone of us tailor made to react accordingly
until the long slow choral dance unwittingly reflects
an endless regression of our mirrored family tree.

The centipede walks and twists and talks to itself
and begins to understand this procession while it's
still unfolding off the shelf spitting and winking
to slice and cut like a barbed wire razor positively
humming with electromagnetic power cultivated
by a molecular chain still on the verge of balancing
itself out as we go on the whole wide world tested
in a panic before a mirror in self portrait arrested.



We divide our aspect in a lot of ways
Some of them haven't even been thought up
by the population infesting the world today
but used to be common knowledge millennia ago
others are diffused through the ages by only a fraction
as the fewer among us here so very well know
our mechanical nature swung into action
by the well driven engines manufacturing snow
with all the seasons unwound in a blur behind us
fueled by the dying chorus of a thousand suns
what other reason could there be to explain
this manifestation's for us because we are the ones
who imagine we can see ourselves from afar with alien eyes
without realizing vision itself must set us apart from the rest
defining each other as cells from the host of the skies
shedding a spiral trajectory of sputtering stars
there's only one shadow a singular reflection and we're not it
we are all that's left over after the fuse has burnt out
the impressionist flare fading away into darkness
to bring a concussion of echoes that are no longer a dream
but realized here in the flesh now and for all eternity


                                                              for Gregory



The juxtaposition about 
our lonely sun 
keeps us all entranced
in a dance around 
each other chasing
the evenings of our dawns
those dark capes 
detached which 
carry away 
our earliest dreams
to dissolve amid 
the sparkling pinpoints 
of Venus and the stars



Caught in between reading Wright, Ligotti and Moore,
soaring on their thermal updrafts, I reach out to steady
myself with Wei, Porchia, and Bohrs.  I contemplate under
the sunbeams of Blake, Blackwood, and Crane and vacillate
on the currents of Attanasio, Delany, and Dick. 

I dream through the stained glass windows of Bradbury,
Poe, and King, and disintegrate back to reality
with Rucker, Sterling, Shirley and Artaud, 
thinking to myself in endless wonder over 
their keen toll on my soul.  The collective impression
left upon me by Lovecraft, Kiernan, and Shepard
may only be rivaled by Bester, Calvino, and Marquez.

Lost in the labyrinth of Borges, Beckett, and Joyce.
Found in the pastures of Huxley, Farmer, and Ende.
Drowned in the waters of Baudrillard, Nietzsche, and Merwin.

Bound for glory with Gurdjieff, Whitman, and Yeats
along with Tolkien and Dickens, Hugo and Flaubert
where a lot of their books upon my shelves await.

I'm courting maximum isolation as my lonely wife.
Please sentence me to this prison for the rest of my life.