carick

the parasitics within they make us
famous for things they say we should
hide
a realness of one of me that none can see.
I am
we are
invisible to the naked eye

it is not
rebellion certianly not
in this strength only
in isolated instances.

It's just that we
wanted to go the same way

now over and through it is blood, burnt flesh
a dry empty body waits to be
used, reused, discarded, recycled
Laying on, not near, absent use
emptiness reverbates, then shatters

it's literature and drugs
unrecognizable
to all who wonder at the sameness
All of it is
nothing more than this

there is not more than a modicum of challenge
but for the vulgarity of some life some live
it was not a happy time but only the sameness
hiding these violent loathing selves

there is nothing of importance here
or there, only you.
spiritual liberation is not yet
liberation of any sort breeds fear
like the wavering signals coming in over
late-night radio snuck under the pillow of a stick-figure
girl, a caricature is all and so
neither can it be true what she thinks they were
did or she saw felt.
Empty lines never fill in

Nothing is until it is
observed.
They refuse to see what is in front of them.
WHat is behind them.
They refuse to be seen.
Then we are not.