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Withdrawn on waves of nothingness. When the mind’s eye attempts to visualize concepts of love and attraction and meaning, the electronic pulsation explodes. In the burnt shrapnel of fixing what is wrong, of righting what is down, all that is left is a singed crater in the middle of the chamber. “The camera saw everything so maybe you shouldn’t do that in public anymore.” Huddled in the corner of cement and shit and infinite knowledge, there lies a question-just one? How complex of a being you are! What worthless being you are. What a clever piece of intricately-laced nothingness we are. And none of any of all of it matters. Pretty soon it won’t be so pretty to you anymore. The tip of the hypothalamus releases serotonin, ensuring your dreams will be much better than the pieces of shattered mass that are falling out of thin air. Crystallized water, hydrogen, and helium.  What heavy weight nothingness can be! But all the great granules of sand that constitute the desert are moving around, following the wind to the next great space of nowhere. Allotted space is closing in like xenon hexafluoroplatinate. -(HEAVY GAS)+ The fusion of our mind to our bloodstream has grown cold and distant. Stagnant and ending quickly. A burned out star surviving in the last hours of its meaningless universe. Versatility. If some concepts are immeasurable than this is surely one of those. Force and mass of inverse thought. All of this and nothing, albeit less, but nothing is more meaningless than it. We are awaiting the burn out. Yet, through one of the many eyes within our being, it has already begun. It will take an eternity of no time. In no time! I cannot see the present but the future hold baroness, for just this: ______

“If it meant something to you maybe you should have said more about it.” But voices continue to be coarse and engrained. Softer, but clearer than the oasis’ purging force. Water before its transformation. Gentle and distant and quite easy to see. Is it? Remember now, you have broken the table of counterintuitive expectations. You have created a chart for your own self-worth. Its dialectic behavior can be translated, for a small fee. Xe. Find yourself lost in the nothingness, with nothing left. Carry yourself well. Wish you all the best. Let it take you under the vestibule’s wood-workings to stay there and rot. Skins tight/lacrimae dry/come closer or not at all.

Toward the final stages, there arrives a great release. The methane and ammonia are soothing over your silicone lips. A resolute being. Stand under its meaning, for you are much smaller than you think. If only one being will ever be able to grasp you as your opaque, murky manners slip through their fingers, THIS! This, my dear, is all that you need. A few small seconds to breathe. Before the vapors fill you and sway you to sleep.

P H A S E T R A N S I T I O N. Eutectic beings, erratic swings. It will make sense in dreams.  

-)Absence(-

Standing in a greenhouse of piss and booze, I feel like I’m finally going to lose it. Without a phone, there is no way I can let anyone know that I’ve arrived at the Gary train station. And, oh yeah, I’m running a little late. Humidity is rising from the asphalt and filling my runny nose with toxic fumes. Situationally, this day has completely and utterly fucked me. My face is stuck together with organic adhesive: water, mucin, lipids, lysozyme, lactoferrin, lipocalin, lacritin, mascara, sodium, whiskey, and potassium. I missed a train to see my grandfather. 92 years old, but it doesn’t bother him because he never really remembers anyone. I sprinted from the middle of a moving intersection at Randolph and Michigan and almost vomited because of the acid in my stomach. Lacrimation and emesis. In the freezing subway, I can run at the same rate as the 10:45 train but I can’t get inside. A minute too late. “He’s about to cash out, anyway.” That’s why it was so important for me to make that fucking Sunday train. Detours and red lights. I strip my clothes off in the Intelligentsia bathroom only to throw on clothes from last night. Only to scratch the alcohol out of my bangs. Only to make sure my nares are crystal clear. You look very, very presentable. The amount of coffee I was preparing to consume could probably fill the continent of Africa. At least, the coastal country where my gentile cab driver was from. At a certain altitude, espresso begins to taste like lime and coriander.  Like honey and tobacco. Like sour, bitter, unforgiving heat. Ventricles pump blood (too fast) through my veins. I can taste some in my throat. I shouldn’t have lost my phone. I shouldn’t have ordered black olives. I have to remember to buy a pack of cigarettes for the lovely barista, the girl who let me use her work phone to justify my irresponsibility. Practicing breathing techniques technically naked in the bathroom saved me a few tears. It saved me time I would have spent trying to clean my face (the second time around). What does a door symbolize to you? Options? Direction? Escape? The one thing separating your bare flesh from consumers and workers and coffee filters? The Midwest breeds the strangest people.  Indiana, in particular. Finally, I’m surrounded by apprehensive riders on a later train headed eastbound. Gary was murder captial a few years back. And some central town in Indiana is where the KKK was founded. But riders on this train only flinch around black people. Because they have drugs. And guns. Yea, lots of guns. So riders encourage their children to throw burning garbage cans and spray paint swastikas on all the colored’s houses. It’s far too infrequent that I am surrounded by people who intrigue and allure, excluding the generous barista and the gaggle of theatre kids talking about Sharon Stone movies. And the two men with their chests pressed together.  A young woman, just a few years shy of my grandfather is sitting to my left. The conductor is yelling at passengers to get their luggage out of the aisle. Her suitcase is blocking 40% of the walkway but no one will tell her to move it. No one will offer to help her. She looks frightened. Nibbling at pistachios and discarding the shells in her plastic grocery bag. The bag is filled up with empty shells and several bags of potato chips. What is the half life of a $0.99 bag of Cool Ranch Doritos? I feel like this woman, as fragile as she looks, is preparing to be yelled at by the conductor. She glared at the conductor almost wishfully. She needs someone to yell at her, someone to tell her to move her bag, someone to pay attention to her. She’s hugging the outside of her seat. I don’t think she wants any “black people” to sit by her. Two eyes stare at the overly-caffeinated theatre kids because they keep talking about crushing up their mothers’ xanax. I can relate, mostly. But they are drinking sodas and energy drinks. I am drinking vegan mochas and honey bear espressos.  The old woman is scornful. The dorito grease from her fingertips is staining her wooden rosary beads. Don’t be so afraid of death, sweetheart. He’s not going to save your life. He died for your sins so you can die and go somewhere really great or something. He likes when men in robes stand behind a screen and forgive you for fucking up and then you can die krystal kkklean. I can’t remember how it goes exactly but it doesn’t matter. You are going to die with your fucking grief so keep praying in case He forgot to have mercy on you today. Thank God for Frito Lay, Inc.