Life

Life is so fleeting.
It's like waking from a dream.

That moment you felt so alive in your sleep, where you wake in tingles knowing that somehow you lived somewhere else, secretly outside of your life, a self without self that selfishly wants selflessly to express the self,
that you question if reality is real, where triangles seem round and mirrors mirror what isn't there, the disappearance of vanity,
that you brew coffee to find the white rabbit, where tunnels lead everywhere but here,
that there is and was and will be what you won't want, why dancers break into bop and rappers turn to birds, and flowers chase the sunset because beyond the stars is darkness screeching to be felt,
that you care about this or that, the pronouns of misconception,
that you drown in the bubbles climbing the rivers to burst the surface of illusion
that confusion of wondering why a knight jumps forward twice and turns either right or left and endanger the queen,
that being lost on 5th avenue looking for Broadway and asking the dredlocked drunken black man where within the forests of bricks and windows, cliches and patios, buzzers and breadcrumbs, pigeons and wheelchairs, denim and baldness, string quartets and hot-dog stands, you imagine the circle of strawberry field, hating the town square,
that the moonlit rodents patented in the leather of their own furs are the copy-write of why the dream hoisted in copper tarnished in green burns deep within the hazel eyes of the dead women off the side of the cement street having taxi cabs pass her by, because her hidden bottle in a brown bag still gripped by her skeleton is the poison of liberty
that justice claims you in the tossing of notes on staff paper and ink stains you in "F minor" the four flats of Boston and New York and Los Angeles and Starbucks
that sugar smuggled by sweetened tea and universities corrupting people into dreams of pharmacy and nuclear reactions
that the nuclear marriage has split into the love of love instead of convention and production of babies
that holding hands with the same gender is colorful the arch of expression has moved Van Gogh past the impressions of cathedrals and Venice Beach
that sand still cascades the hips of time dropping to the floors of nevermore, nevermore, never mourn the politics of airplanes and burning rubble the rabbis of thrown stones and laws that govern forgetfulness, never mourn the living that stabs you in the eye and turn your back until you've backed your truck across the poppy fields of uranium and plutonium and gold and metals that will enslave another generation through the comedy of capitalism the bars of freedom
that you imperialistically place 420 people into the news of illegal gatherings because people gather to uncensor their senses and press their wishes that a soldier should never die to enslave another into democratic rule,
that we vote for nature and how she should keep a rainbow in our sky every time the cry for wealth should be given only to whom we love because

Life passes by.
It's like waking from sex and wishing you hadn't.