tomorrow

emergence falls from above

condenses from nothing

and consciousness is but a flicker

absolute and volatile

tomorrow we cease

and our dollars mean nothing

but for the children waiting

and repeated

The artist’s paradigm.
Creating the soul through the expression of it. My art determines me. I determine my art. Either infinity or nothing is at this core.

You can stand up for what’s right or what’s easier. It’s the struggle of my life.

Fold inward. Reopen.

Sometimes, I melt into you. My knuckles glide over your stomach – my eyes fold inward. Reopen. Reopen. Reopen. Pupils skipping along your lips, down your chin and breasts and folding again. With ease. I toss my eyes left and right, misshapen circles. And red to blue floods like clouds. Reopen. Reopen. Reopen. You’re still here. My hand has found your fingers and glides around their tips.

"WHAT THE FUCK"

You mouth these words so fervently to stick against my eye whites. Hair pressed, wet, matted and against your eye whites. Your words and hair and eye whites. A repeated phrase of disbelief. “WHAT THE FUCK”. Even my neurons become individuals. The smallest blocks of me, blind of others.

It seems impossible to worry anymore. As the boat rises along the wave, I am unaware of the inevitable fall. I’ve never let so much go… I will be either powered or murdered. Anything but stagnant.