oh angels of mercy, take me back to your shores. i've done more than i was able and it's time to go home. i promise i'll do better next time.

is there a place we can hide in the meantime? because this is the mean time. in fourteen years, it will be the kind time. but for now, in these days we wear red in honor of mean time's rage and power. outrageous displays of rage and power. and fear and loss and triumph and hope and brutality and alienation and alien nation and alike and differing from and thinner than fatter than and almost secure and desperately lost and consuming and purging and purging the defeat and failure and consuming the belief. that you are even at least you when you are not even significant as a you. your significance lies in the we. lays in the we. lays in the wee hours of we. of us of none of one. of one. of how many times do i have to tell you? it is my sex, it is my horror, it is my bliss, it is my beautiful unborn chinese daughter. it is that place in between the bridge. it is the bridge. where buddha and allah play a gambling game of chess where the stakes are as high as the sky under which you dream of buddha and allah and all you really do is lift your arms around the heart of those other yous and you build that bridge where god parties happen. i see it all and i know the score. and i built the machine that made it known. but i will not make it better, make it different. i will just know and report back. like grade six. like grade six. what if this is only grade six? my kingdom is only as big as this frame. and when i move forward, move above, i will be at the beginning of the road. a child once again. i don't think i know what's going on.

what's going on?

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