Desire—the linchpin of action
Emotions flashing out like
Like cars on a light rail
Passengers busy themselves
Between terminals

Some never get off

Fear, sex, hope, and heat
A life of pale memories
Ghosts peaking up through
The dimly lit passages etched
In gray matter, a labyrinth
Snaring a soiled lizard
Whose venom blood
Is filtered into purest water
As it rises to the surface

No amount of knowledge
Has been able to free him
From himself

Watching cars switch tracks,
He rolls restlessly in sodden sheets
If the world would bend, he could be happy
Like the spoon in the Matrix, shifting
And twisting to his will

But nothing bends, and the smooth
Surfaces so often grow transparent
Revealing the stained, crooked teeth
That gnaw on the heart of the world

The war between self-concepts,
The Ideal a Tantalusian torture
And acceptance the numb glow
Of the Buddha’s opium den

Akin to all the rest, he sees himself,
The Ideal, the ghost of could-be
Haunting the dysfunctional present
Unable to be bent into is

Calling, calling across infinitudes
The vision returns a muted echo,
Voiceless lips stunted by static

Oceans of hatred, fear, and misery
Of longing, of contempt, and envy
He burns within the quiet fire
Of quickening contractions:

“I want to be!” his heart whispers
The world, a stone-faced pus sack
Doesn’t even hear

“I just want to play!”
That is his heart, his core –

Yet in meeting such squalor
Serious lines bleed from his fingers
And cover the minds of readers
In his own blood

“I just want to play!”
Held hostage by his own patterns,
None can help him,
He must do it himself.

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