So I look forward to the moment when
I sent me back, since that is where the real
turn of events, for me, shall come again.
Everything about the way I feel

shall be converted into something good,
something that packs a historical punch,
that shall make me and mine understood,
as we resist his inevitable crunch—

I’m recovering, now, my morning zen,
and the magnetic field that aligns in
the back of my head and my neck, again
and again, when my emotions win

out, and I’m at peace with my condition—
a servant of the tension i express
when i face, with grace, my ambition,
and the oncoming day, minus the caress

Break up each unit of time, here on earth,
into infinitesimally small pieces,
and those pieces, then, amount to our worth
in heaven—the sum of all that He says,

between our ears—for an eternal time.
His infinity is our infinity, no
matter the component parts—they chime
the same notes, loving us as we go

Extended breath, as best i can, bridging
the gap, i sense, between the here and now,
a 4D life that’s real and increasing
in it’s reality, excusing how.

I take some desperate metaphysical
plunge, making up science as i go along,
that which, even for me, sounds the gull—
that I should dissuade every song—

I listen for my true love’s voice—she is my inspiration, when, that is, i have no philosophy to impart, or i long for a human connection. She knows, i think, that, in this life, we shall never meet, and that, furthermore, I do not expect her to suffer, doing without. But she keeps me in the back of her mind—and, i think, her partner is wise, having made, on his part, a similar agreement, across space and time. The agreement, then, is the foundation of their love, and, because of that, I am happy she has, in my place, something that is true, and good.

I imagine my friend some distance away,
and i shift, taking a short cut, from here
to there—soaking up the energy i may,
and strengthening the bond i hold dear.

I used to think i had nightmares across
the extra dimension, murdering bad
people in real time, subject to the boss,
the equation that would make me sad,

I go knocking on an alien door,
determined to prove life after death,
when, for shame, no doubt, i hit the floor,
reduced to counting every last breath,

as if my life depended on it.
This greater consciousness that i pursue
leaves me, suddenly, to the life i’d quit,
if it didn’t add to the life i’d go to,

To see the world as my true love sees it,
I shift from my extra-dimensional
coordinates to his, and take respite.
I stay until his view’s a mouthful,

and I long for the life that’s built for me,
specifically, by my ancestors.
My kin and kind will forever be
the microphone that He considers

Number by number: we come to a head,
trying to distinguish our left and right,
living in a plane that’s fiery red,
and beholden to none. So, yes, i write

of things that, heretofore, would make no
physical sense—supported only by
faith or experiment, never the duo
in tandem. I can’t help but reason why

Don’t i see myself in a pathetic light,
with a runaway imagination—
determined, in short, by the devil’s blight,
lingering, from my youth, every notion

of love and fame—belonging to me?
Can’t i keep myself in check, and resist
immature thoughts that divest every
weakness or conceit that would persist,