space

we are all connected
but none of us are touching
we are all touching
but none of us are touched
how am i still one when there are spaces between my atoms
and you between my legs
how am i still one when there are thoughts that i deny
and feelings i relive, constantly
i am revived

how am i whole when voids exist between the nothingness,
holes in my whole i am existing?
and how should i feel if there is nothing real about you, or me
is life in fact a series of all things, anticipated?
is life to be lived anticipating, me?

are things ever done?
do we live in meta lives, in meta worlds, in the hives
of bees
busy, busy, busy
the universe works
in accord, accordingly. to the sound of the accordion
in accordance with it's chords, recording
breath. breathing in, breathe out.
expansion, contraction, relaxation,
empty, nothingness.
something is? nothing in everything is something.
everything in nothing is quite a thought, big even. odd.

but being even is often odd when times are hard.
and hard times measure oddly even on different scales.
and the oneiric burden of consistent easy days
can even oddly far outweigh
the challenge in finding pleasure, in often oddly easy ways.

grande (non) fata morgana, please.

a caffeine induced phantasmagoria of life:
of glasses half full and of minds half empty,
of feline spines encasing feminine guise,
of walking skeletons starved for attention,
of all you can eat and of pedicured feet.
regrets for the undone, regrets redone, and those done regretting.

of rubber and tools and electric machines,
of brain and mirco and aqueous waves,
of inspiration, of pain and of glorious dreams,
of the old, of the future and of modern day slaves,
of the man, of she-story, of remarkable progress,
of the plan, of restraint, and of growth, egregious.

of penchants for pain and sachets of patchouli,
of schemas brokered and of images bought and maintained
of market price, of retail value and gross domestic coquetry.
and the true effect of language: profuse universal mondegreen.