Thick, the oozing, the tempered
forest of the mind, cracked and oblong,
filled with design and delusion, the
circular hollow of intention, the drifting
small planks of Tetris blocks
falling into place; or dissolving
into space – to push past the obedience
of spell, the words of meaning
that lace us in corseted closets and
rippling patterns of past flower-pressings;
the horse-hoofs of what plods through
the night, Paul Revere and what is reverent
in any incredible black box of mind;
the precious sentience of any sentence,
of what is read and what is written,
what sinks in the margins and what floats
in the delicate brine of consciousness,
cohesion, corporate conglomeration;
where the screen sits inside of what
is now a projector of neurons, but once
seemed to be a forest, filled and founded
in the under-rooted treasure of soil and sound –

when we drift into the cybersphere,
handless and body-shaped,
I hope the clouds will welcome us,
spoonfuls of cotton candy consciousness
and old tapped recipes for what concocts
something which approaches feeling –
meaning on display, a gallery curated;
the forest shrinking, while the perfect
pixelated dream of what sits with you

in the night; of what names itself
in the morning, swarming –
not a dream worth remembering –
nothing as pungent and palpable
as the small taps of silicon and synthetics
which will cocoon your small brain
in the mall of imagination, which never
expands further than the four walls
we told it to recognize.