The Author is Naked

Everything is happening on the surface, nightmares are reflections of the day fogged by desire.

One is proud who is ridiculous, everyone else looks disheveled. Fictional exits abound but they are trapped. So many are missing toes, each one worse than each other curled up around the corners.

These Writings Overwhelm Me

In the terror increasingly fortified

the starless sky works above

the eve that lifts me up

will pique contentment

around me is a fire

beginning to speak

don’t abandon me

in the world patiently wrapped

I don’t know

didactic, ontology

Does the pavement regard me?

An insane man once asked me,

Who speaks for the street?

I grow dim the closer I get

I’ve lived alone

These Writings Overwhelm Me

He seeks power, at any cost for its own sake. This is his only rule, his only moral. He rewards only those who bow down to him. Their incantations and invocations are truly symbolic acts of servitude and not in themselves magic. His closest human disciples replicate their power relationship with him, with their own followers, therefore he becomes the point of a pyramid of power. He is not cynical, I don't believe he doubts himself, he is sure, at least sure of his near destruction. He lives on the edge of death, reckless, cruel, and trapped.

I haven’t kept much to myself

Have I been honest with myself?

Is there something I wish for I don’t know?

I know what I want

Is there something else?

It must be beyond the reach of a word for it

Does it feel like the fading shadow of a dream?

Is it a feeling?

Is it an idea?

Is it a thing?

Is it a place?

Is it a person?

Is it a book?

Is it a poem?