Presence is the absence of absence.

Just like a thick cloud of smoke,

we disappear into an inch of numbing silence.

In the colloquial resonance of tethered sleep,

in the indefinite expanse of fleeing space,

we are peppered into the reciprocity of hymns and noises,

for there is a little seduction for everyone,

there’s little consolation for every hammered eye.

Even light escapes the unknown inks,

you, my friend, are only a fish

scaled to a sea monster.

This is not a chord gone wrong

this is not a massacre of the red giants

You are anything but a dead star

Plastered and synced in the likes of the appropriates,

what is within is without.

Hedonistic, yes.

Admittance, never.

The convulsion of dichotomous manifestation is where you will find

the paraplegia of a sea horse,

and the stream’s only skin deep,

as thick as the bloated tar on the hair of a porcupine.

Any waning whimpering siren will tell you

this all fantastic episodical collateral show

is an accidental discordance of the hungering myths.

A memory is only as crude and cruel

as you invent it to be.

In itself, there’s no substance or drift.

Shapeshifter, you are a day-breaker,

licensing autumn rain to cleanse, hypnotically

the shudders of the past,

releasing anonymous hyphens and dashes for the calm

kaleidoscopic downpour of the seamless fluency.