The seething reflections we choose to be blind to.

A dissected brain of sinful nights pulses a glaring dehydration, altogether aligned with the backup beeps of the moving truck, I’d be forced to load. "Can we turn that thing off?" I plaintively whine to no one in earshot. Pained thoughts breed hunger for relief, a state of ever-shifting sands and rude winds churning the grains to dust. The fast forages us to spirit bodies ... that nice metaphor, or sentiment… or what? Of staying "hungry"… yet so many in that position simply become desperate, and prey on others. Ritual jacks into the "God" part of the brain, whose memes have already colonized all portions we ask it to fulfill. The play doesn’t work for those who think they have answers the ‘answer’ knows nothing of.


The forest treads softly on itself, meditating on each tree fall, and the noise it would make, spanning its uncertain future. The winds of self-protection raged around her, engaging her mind to free her spirit to talk; the fire fanned itself to a fury, spitting sparks of hot venom designed to consume all life in its vindictive path, singing the shoots which intended to bloom. In the face of its wall, I became the wind it needed to respire, and flowed into its brightly-lit center. The intensity surged as it secretly felt me, wanting to purge and protect the place it arrived from, and went to, in a demonic flash. Jesus! As I typed flash, the restaurant worker slipped and fell, smashing a plate on the brittle floor. Things had been progressing like that for weeks, events as psalms ... accidents outside as doors slapped their jams, thrust shut in anger, or rage. She was unleashing her power, which destroyed things around her, another way of saying, it cleared the forest, so flowers could bloom. I was in the Que to be vaporized, my number clicked onto the next served reader-board, my ego left, the attachment fell, I was a spirit form, listing from flesh ... assimilating its messages, or trying to, anyway. "I was so mad at her," a witness said. "She was pouring out her shit all over you." Not taking responsibility for her reflection described, in a close other, she’d locked her formidable horns with. "But it wasn’t about me." I said "I was completely elevated, rapt with the drama of someone, so succinctly decrying themselves with no awareness of what they were doing. It was utterly beautiful, if you must know. I’m speechless in the universal perfection, which I stumbled across." "I’m glad you’re at peace with it. That chick is pissing me off big time lately."