kiss the crown until, and only until the lips bleed – the tongue flies. But who is the messenger?

All of us. Us all are naturally uninteresting. We are always defined by social structure — and for reasons in pristine transparency, we speak a language that is not our own. Did science tell us to walk with hands? Are our mouths used to speak? Where is the color in what we see? 

I am subjective in all naturalness, we are existentially borrowed beings. Not by god. But by humanity itself. We are the repetition of history. The language. The numbers. What’s fresh is recreated in what was already there. What we are going to teach our young? The same. What does art redefine? Science proves that our capabilities are far more underrated — and for reasons what and how, certainly remain unclear. Are we possible gods? 

Each individual has the capability to recreate ourselves outside the social norm. But do we? No. I have come to believe this terminal illness has been brought about by fear. The lack of communication with others. The lack of sensitivity? Are we really social beings? Do we need to communicate the same way or live the same way; to fuck? to procreate? Why does bestiality exists? Even better, why is it so terrifyingly looked down upon by civilization (status quo)?

I have contradicted every religion, and am certain to have people screaming in my sensibilities “Cause thats fucking normal.” I choose to disagree. Hold to that statement unless convinced otherwise. I seldom believe anything is ever normal. Each passing moment holds up to its true identity in never repeating itself. Each face never remains the same. Each breath consequently different from the last..the last …the last — so they teach in Vipassana. Everything is acute all the time, and all the same, numb.

Why do I have dead uncles visiting me in my daydreams, advising me on how to publish books. This reality persists. How do I persuade the parents of child poets, whom speak the truth, when I’m nobody just passing through with a drunk Indian boy from California. She is touched by what I say and she gives me her purse and wooden clogs as a token. She kisses me on the cheek and waves my drunk friend and me goodbye. I turned around to her and said. “Sooner or later, the truth always comes about, hidden in the cosiest corners of the world — where people always least expect to find it. And then they will crucify it like they always have.” I smiled. My drunk indian friend kept bringing us down to the pavement. Everytime I had to raise him up — clean his fresh wounds. Dust it off. I looked at mine. The bruises and cuts were there. But I let it go, not believing in it.

We walked into the sunrise, equal to the sunset. With its same power of wisdom. We entered the bar. Empty. I sat my indian friend from California down. Mosquito coils were covered and operated with electricity, among the light bulbs of many kinds from different worlds. Space music was played and I can never really define this. I had the need to smoke a cigarette and the same need not to. I turned to my indian friend. He was rested there, among the mosquito coils and flickering light bulbs and space music. A statue. Sculpted to form a prophet in deep contemplation. He only remains in stone? But were his words mine? Or mine his. They belonged to everybody and nobody. In no language or with. Equally embedded with connotation and denotation. Tangible and Intangible.

I had a wet dream once. I had surfed interracial porn and got bored quick. So I laid down on my bed and pulled the quilt over me. I thought of women I desired to fuck and stroked my cock. I came and fell asleep in the late afternoon. 

The wet dream; I made love to the light and darkness. In a threesome. I pulled darknesses hair from the back and rammed my cock into his/her anus and lightness rammed his/her cock into mine. Funny, the two of them bore the resemblance of Michael Jackson.

And then I thought I had it all. I lit a cigarette proud and starred into darkness. Then into lightness. And kissed them on the cheek both.

In the similar fashion of kissing the hands of god. When I woke up it was dark. I never said another word for the rest of the day.