Revenge of the red-haired girls,
Some in clown mascara,
Violaceous rashes,
Intentionally dissonant
But now they are noticed
Now that everything has met
Its expiration date
And only the new satisfies.
Their lanterns of discernment catch
As our thoughts leap, in loops --
Detail residue keeps the frame by frame
Stuck, repeating --
If you could only cut that moment
In the editing booth,
When you made the executive decision
To disobey your higher self
And everything buckles up,
You become the most chaotic
Of the collective softly veering
To coherence, tagged
As a victim, to perplexing oppressors,
Lapped in endurance to the strange
Instead of base, your home frequency pad,
The still life reigning supreme over what is
A Frenchie after all, in a wool vest
And teenage girls looking for better men.
There's sacred geometry everywhere,
In Union Station and in the personal
Art I had collected,
In last night's dream life,
Banker to the Emperor,
Who had to know as an engineer.
I sit here bearing the force
Of nothing working
As it used to, on the folks,
The patient collective
Who pop a fuse now
In my empathy field
And I can choose to feel it
As holy people choosing the mirror
Truth of the quickest path, or as
Are we all watched,
Made bets on,
Doomed?
It's an invitation to break the loop,
To think again, because you can
You know, lose all trace
Of who you are
And be everyone,
Spin in any timeline you turn,
How everything you want to learn
Is yours for the asking
As if by magic -- that is you,
Source consciousness
Wearing yet another
Of your disguises,
Slumming as a Long Island
Celebrity on a plasma run.
They joined you to come here
As these sad commuters
Joined me to forgive, forbear
And write this poem
About sadness,
How it is the ticket,
The price of admission to experience,
To see how everyone works for you,
As you see when you know who you are,
Which is not what you were.
The protuberance has dissolved
And you are not even a thought,
Just the unmistakable sound
Of the weird turning pro.
