A wake, can you spell that?: Notes from the Dead Letter Office

At some point I become addicted to immortality.
The ever translucent stare far beyond mere mortal possibilities.
(A cross between checked out and checking it out)
These dreams at one point that were self-sufficient entities
Over an unspecified amount of time these dreams mutated
People became attached to these hopeful self-predictions
including surrogates, let’s not forget any of the players
In this example: There is a contest of strength, tugging , stretching
the surface tension dissolves, spilling forth
spilled milk comes to mind, and mothers telling us
not to cry, but we do it better than anyone else
crocodile tears, rough skin, living in motes
Now to a point of building bridges
a head above water
how long has it been?

Gambling with equity locked in escrow and long forgotten even in its native tongue.
laundered heart shaped boxes, dormant and dusty
A gas light time, a thing of the past as we ride the wave to the future.
Crashing down on our established relative huts
A violent reaction causes us to vomit vile ichor
Caveman cellular fear that was once innate to our survival
Imprisoned for our protection, safe from harm
Far beyond interpersonal exchange
Not feeling safe in our communities, much less our own heads
retreating behind walls and fictional representations
Problematic reward system stealing from itself
devouring its own tail

Where is the place for truth in times of smoke and mirrors?
gaze upon this pool drowning in external madness
devised and directed by the hoarders of power
An exchange rate berating possibilities
good genes and a media release upbringing
Your privacy, publically slandered, and chalked up to entertainment
The lackluster, the afraid, the lazy, and the unwilling
all have a place to live out their possibilities
living vicariously through glowing boxes and blinking lights
hypnotized, homogenized for mass consumption

A name now denotes your value.
Quantity over quality and fairness
Fuck you, I got mine steeping stone repurposed tombstones
Open chopping black meat market selling you your private disease
Don’t forget the three hundred percent markup
Making ends meet the noose around your neck snaps
poor quality control, nothing getting done right anymore
where is the craftsmen’s ship the pride the distinguishing marks of love
the imperfection of assurance, replaced at a discount that you cannot pass up
import prostitution of everything imaginable
devoured at an impossible rate
that’s right natural resources, not longer natural
contaminated, twisted, gnarled, shaking with age and bitterness
Left to die, board out of your deteriorating skull
bingo! reminisce slowly sliding down the wall

What’s left of the unimagined endless nonsense
cataloged, filed, misdirected, diverted
harnessed and sold, slavery comes in a multitude of colors
named after food, or cars, or anything, but red or blue

I passed my childhood on the street today.
It didn’t look so good.
I felt sorry for it, abandoned
I wonder in recent passing
when did I lose my voice?

At times it writes me in frantic notes,
like it is locked in a closet
captive, it writes the notes, locked in a closet
it is dark. The voice uses bits of finger nail to scribe the messages
on the backs of cockroaches, tiny messages in bottles
cast out into a endless sea of darkness
they are illegible to a point
but the right eye can make out
the glints of light, the elegance of pondering
take the time to work with the slightest possibility

others walk by simply encased hermetically dead
the soul squandered brittle and stuffed into the little toe
Etched in my soul are things that cannot be undone
the time is now to celebrate with a community
that sees the benefit and put in as much as it takes out
too long has a well been tapped
bleeding fry, starving, the smell of sweet rot intoxicating
the cozy warmth of breaking down simple sugars

The rest is illegible.
We are sorry for the confusion this may have caused,
but in time you will forgive yourself
tune in next time when…