My own twenty-three,

rather personal pi,

is a sun worshipping butterfly,

but as appropriately marked,

predestined or not,

I became a moon lit moth.

I cannot define what i imply-

sick vanity beneath the one great eye?

Or another perfect defect from

the machine mirrored on every rung

of every class, to every race-

electroshocks behind each face?

Do broken-home-viewed fairy tale cartoons

do what the most illumed know to?

Blood revelation spilt down the line

pools in cracked reflections

sold as mine.

Instant overloaded “information”

brewed with suspicion

sure sways my mission,

and so a mystic’s coincidence

is each survivor’s evidence.

The lines are drawn far,

but still too near:

again and again the Eastern Star appears!

A new world truth I can’t unsee;

why do I feel it so personally?

Reduced to a cliche:

How much am I in it?

How far does it go?

Or rather it reach?

Would I rather not know?

Now that the comfort

of the possibility

has shrank

of the voices

being my own,

I am left

alarmingly wanton

for something

with which to cope.

And my illusions of magic

crushed underhoof-

magnificent mineral orbs-

are but the welcomely feasted

sperm of Leviathon

all this time?


c’est moi