awoke on a desert island

on a mountain top

in a cave

at the bottom of the ocean

lying in a crater on the moon

perched on a branch in the rainforest

and in a box six feet deep and steady sinking lower

my stomach drops

as my head floats in a stupor

more aloof gravitational exclusion

newton was incalcuably off in his scribblings

the apple more concussionary than illuminating

swimming in the abject dismissal of softer things

i can barely keep my form upright from the constant pull of centrifugal nuance and universal untruths

she floats like a breeze

untouched by the laws of physics

while each labored step brings me one closer to the molten core

as the increasing pressure compresses my organs to diamond

she is uncaring as she tiptoes across the barren land

and it is here

in the no man’s land between crust and mantle

where the nestled bodies of moais slumber amidst the coiled serpents of lore

where up and down are concepts

and the truth is subjective and woven like a doily on the end table of a nursing home in the middle of war torn paris circa nineteen forty one

filed for a permit to ignore physiological deviations in favor of permutations in the intrinsical nature of dysfunctional molecular biology

zig when it should zag

the live studio audience claps and laughs whenever the sign lights up

and i have the remote control

sad trombones and wonky special effects

as the credits roll

quickly scrolling names of all that have fallen into the spatial reasoning behind these fluctuations in basic fundamental law

her name typed in bold facetype in black on the ebony screen

unseen by anyone but us with our special glasses from the back of the comic book

two nickels and a self addressed stamped envelope

a butterfly with bat wings

and the lowest point of the pit in my stomach

mike’s manic word depot is filmed before an undead studio audience on location in the stygian fields

sponsored by rico’s rusty razor emporium and the home of existentical deferrment located in sunny downtown pompeii

weather says it is going to be a real scorcher so wear extra sunscreen

staring at the eclipse in hope of an elusive vision of goddess

risking the blindness to have you burnt into my mind

who am i fooling, thinking i’ll set down the quill and move on to happier times

i’ll never stop the voices, remorseless whispering bastards, screaming in soft tones, calling me back

always calling

see you next week

same bleak time

same weak channeled frustration