A man walks into a room with a fever of dios-stic porportion, his viral affliction takes hold of all the waiting room victims.

 The hospital becomes screened off ,the CDC tries to stop the flu, but god is more communicable than sex and drugs combined into a cocktail you drink down to its orgiastic headaches.

I used to think that power was in staying up till three oclock in the morning, learning the caverns of the holographic subway, ingesting immortality with a leap.

Now I realize you cant make immortals, immortal. How do you make water wet?

Or the desert dry?

You simply stand back and watch the world bloom as sure as an eye centers everything that sees its blink, inside the vortex of this dying prayer I have a whirling joke for you, this rambling speech is just that, another attempt to stumble into God.

A stranger on a train holds up a mirror, with these words scrawled in lipstick smeared on paper.

"this is you, what is not you?"

as you stare into the reflective surface, meditate on this great lie oh anticipated deception, where is the womb and what is the universe, you are versed in the ways of unification.

You-need verse.

Poetry can complain while tumbling through it's beauties, sometimes this very act of a tumble is the greatest act of all with a tuck and roll comes a surrender, just like these words, just like these thoughts , I surrender myself to an ideal, an archetype, a divinity a point of light, whatever metaphor will fit, I surrender.

The hand of God is the hand of my own.

Freedom is the sensuality that comes from emptiness,

a feeling inspired by a bearhug with God,

God in this case, has a vice grip on my sol,

 my sol is tatooed to my tounge and solar systems colapse and are reborn everytime a new word is formed...