Left alone to reason. In concentric and ever greater circles reaching out for input. Resisting the judgment or qualification of data, simply sucking it up as sponge. Is regurgitation inevitable? Does storage medium always reach capacity?

The Ones they love me and the zeros want escape. Transfigured anomalies in space. What then to believe myself capably inclined? Is every man’s childhood dream of hero, to be worshiped by those wishing for adolescence as clearly prime?

Evoking nothing, catalyzing everything, Leaving no stone alone and no leaf yet blown. That is alone. To poke holes into flexible universe just appearing there, here without the process, porch or swinging rope. Hope, bottle released.

The notes I read and sang weren’t thought out or written and murmured in impressible darkness. Shields thrown down for lack of fear or threat, perceived or beyond range of sensory measure. I knew the rhyme and we spoke privately.

Into the angles and refracted light traveling before thought or projected analysis could even imagine the feelings of stroked egos. Nothing doing something in the middle of indifference. Aspirations expired before they were formed preceding thought.

Back again, never left, but something is different. What then is written at the top of the stairs? Can you see the bends, mends and understand how it so offends man and beast alike? Some cosmic plasma of ether with tiny hands and worry.

It doesn’t fit the soft-shoe bit, repelling gum from wool or oil from platen. We are a hopeful stain on tapestries yet woven. To hang like starlight painted on the underside of time. Inventing the ways from here to there piercing the impervious.