the desk sits in front of me,
the laptop computer drafts my formal speech,
her name is productive and she is my ghostwriter,
though i can't always hear what she says when she speaks.
the clutter organizes my intentions,
what is the difference between letters and symbols?
is the meaning of a smiley face just a front?
i gaze at my surroundings, and at all the things around them.
she tells me that if you combine,
reality and gravity, after a series of simple reactions,
you get relativity.
and to me that seems like a dream deferred.
generally speaking it tends to be especially true;
our significance is solely dependent on one another.
a dog barked outside a few moments ago,
and the echo of the dog lingers in my room,
the sound becomes distorted and meshes,
as if a disc jockey were in control of its existence.
i sort of know what he was saying:
listen to me.
the dog i mean.
it's like eating cold chicken noodle soup,
with a pair of chop sticks?
a small refrigerator makes my room warmer,
but my aircon makes it even hotter outside.
a ceiling fan sprouts from the roof
like a flower blooming, Oh, the beauty of it,
makes my room spin like a top and turns the world upside down,
reaffirming my very own circulation.
(elementarily deep in the dot of the i lies an atomic anomaly: a study in anatomic spectrometry:
in constant rotation:
which pulses in every single spot that you aren't looking and every single place that you cant see,
and if you look
it moves to where you are no longer looking.
so far the agreement seems to be that existence in space constitutes existence, hence,
quarks in neutrinos,
so
see as my
molecular beam screams through the supreme regime seemingly scheming in my dream themes to harness my esteem,
the rainbow grows, flows and glows shedding light on the woes of those pros who froze the knows and the,
knownots, team me with robots, fiend from the treetops, fuck all the cops with their props and their shops and their signs that say stop till they drop from their spots)
the heart spins the head spins the room spins the earth spins the moon spins the sun
spins the existential story of the existence,
spins the universe, of the disc jockey.
a television rattles reality in a room irregardless,
a gas stove snaps for attention, a flame is controlled,
my digital notebook relates completely,
and she knows every impulse i possess.
the sounds in the silence means that we are live,
all systems are go, and we are almost ready for lift off,
in a state of constant departure,
before the attention drifts off,
before my attention is ripped off,
ripped off the wall of my skull,
by my hands, cleansed of conscience
and religion, fallen.
the truth is in there,
somewhere,
i know i'll get back to it later,
somewhere,
