I stray, perhaps too much, from my routine,
writing this poem day in and day out,
zooming in, a time, on a different scene—
physics questions that give me a shout

when lying in bed, unable to sleep.
Why do I, hence, refuse to understand—
rehashing what’s answered with a peep,
spending the hours i would command?

I share my coordinates with my mate. But how did we find each other in the first place? Good seeks good—and my particular construction had its complement in mind, when, out of the bowels of the infinite, I asked for help.

I’m composed of His holographic plate,
for now, existing in His temporal realm,
realizing the future I would slate,
taking my place near the top, at the helm,

and securing the woman of my dreams.
I’m living, now, on His magic mountain,
taking the cure that He outward deems—
a life of philosophy under the sun,

i think my divine reckoning will come
once the bad, a part of me, has truly
ballooned, and i’m left to an infinite sum—
atoning, though Him, as far as i can see.

i won’t notice it until the outside
becomes impossible, then, to discern,
with bad people leaving, at once, His side,
and, instead of suffering, taking a turn

I’m thinking of those that i don’t like—
those that did me wrong, and are obnoxious,
people that are all too much alike,
and, as such, would be less real than a cuss

word—shared with those that don’t believe.
And yet, I was obnoxious in many ways,
before realizing the love I receive,
and so some, i think, will take what He pays

So, good, it’s decided, he’s a part of
me—the projection i share in 4D,
and, as such, a real part of his love—
a component of what I embody.

I like this idea that he exists,
content, and conscious, within his bounds,
happy, do tell, to hunt what He resists,
an offering from God, the depth He sounds,

We live conscious lives in an unconscious
sea; at night, when we dream, our other half
speaks, living, as they do, without fuss,
determined to ignore his golden calf,

and worship the immaterial God.
the mortal world that lived before our soul
arrived gives us his preemptive nod,
taking what they, as travelers, would toll,

The hypersphere, and its contents, project
into 4D; the Neanderthal, fishes,
animals, trees, and plants i collect
would be me, happy to do what He says,

and, because I am happy, so are they.
So what of the bully? He is not me,
but, rather, a happy devil that I delay,
when, in heaven, I suffer to be free.

I hear Him coming, with the blues in His head, singing of damnation, and all the things we dread. I see buckshot embedded in His tree, and I’m thinking of all the things that I might have coming to me, if I continue to be good. But really I know goodness is its own reward, and, to want more than that, is to overstep our bounds, inviting suffering into our homes.

Waking up, and facing up to His dread,
the facts we arrive at when people lie,
an army of devils around their head
to remind us that, in this life, we die.

The conclusion is that sorrow awaits
no matter how valuable we become—
our health, over time, slowly abates,
or, what’s worse, we amount to a sum