Lick the Sun
It's like sausage-link twists
in the arteries of your mind,
while your eyes stare into the pixels
of puzzles on the boxed projector
attached to the processor that now controls
your memories and therefore your life.
Poking the springs behind painted letters on plastic
you find there are probably as many smooth blank scars on your mind
as there are on the back of your hands that follow the patterns of
commands that are typing, which you learned through endless nights of creating papers, unknowingly shaping you into
the unconscious computerized morphologist you are, able to see light from the tubes inside the screen
and nothing of the sun-showered world.
So wrapped up in text you leave behind the fun times you had
Mashing the unique, intricate patterns of wet snow against one another
Killing the individual existence in each mathematical sheet of frozen water
To create the perimeter of what the glossed muscles in your head
perceived as a heavenly body.
Wouldn't you again like to crush the spines of the grass
that point at the gorgeous blue emptiness,
an open field of nothingness so incomprehensible that we need a glob of hot thick waves
to exist in the middle of nothing and illuminate all the cells of emptiness so that we can see them.
Wouldn't it be easier to lick the sun and drink the warmth,
swallow the hot molasses mass of sweetness,
as it swallows you and your innate craving
to understand the shadows
thrown by the presence
that the moist balls
of your skull
perceive as
existing,
living,
dying,
burnt
wet?