Clear Haven from Heavy Heart

In the center of the hallway a shadow rises. Becoming the wanderer of the lone buildings through the night inside of which fear grows. Painting a picture of the ghost you saw. When you were a child. In the sleep stupor of the bathroom in the morning. White tile. The redundant climbing sun breaking clouds up through its shine. Cocaine a few months ago up my nose. Nothing new to talk about. There are Pegasi the Lord of Drugs prepared for me on a chariot I was supposed to steer. But I never did. And then, on the edge of the mountain we climbed, I thought I saw God, and I called out, but it did not respond. If it even heard me. Tomorrow’s lectures going out of sync with the lips that deliver them. I need to go to the store to buy a book in the capitalist mechanicus. ¶ I had a dream. There were scientists saying I had to get drunk who consulted with a god by sneaking over the fencing of his pool. A large beige house. The brain’s subaware treatment of the moment mostly deleted content you can’t regain access to. ¶ Unaware of what to write about or who to be anymore. But you knowing who you are somehow like a dream. That being not quite enough for me. Stepped out the door as the drums slammed on in the song. Same sum still going on. Getting calculated. There are tomorrows you could never be prepared for. There are samurai waiting in the eaves to riddle you. Great noons to moonlight. But I’ve slept in today. I’ve slept in, and tomorrow is gone, too. But right now I am in the sanctum of the breach, where lost people in tattered clothes root through the walls to find a secret truth they know nothing about the nature of. And all we are becomes what was once real. Clear and bankrupt. Something stupid. Bed lying become a sport I compete in against all the other sleepers invisible behind walls along with the few out in the open under the eyes of God. Tantrum prayers the one who loves me prays. That I will maybe see the light. Though who knows, maybe this is all I have. Creeping suspicions nothing is wrong and everything is right. The need: Must not buy into the verso. Of that. And the school terror of going down slowly through a fall and not knowing where you’ll land, if anything will catch you. Remembering past versions of a life this one is supposed to be the product of. Not knowing what it felt like to be who you were. Not quite knowing who you are. Not understanding, but laughing at the jokes. Because who is supposed to say. Who is supposed to determine the shape the light subsumes. I and my cannon mouth hurtling nothings back at the sweet universe blessing every bit of me. Not wanting to become well.