Well what are in these moments,
the mechanics of self,
claimed by superficial repetition?
What equivalency floats your soul?
Why the button down gloom
of self-consciousness in passing?
Where is the broom closet
in the big brain of your body building?
And when does the forty watts
of light within you, burn you brightly?
Is it there,
where the lipless self-kibitzer
of inner voiceyness,
offers you the plague of insistence
to gnaw at your attention's bone?
Help me to help you find
where experience is
now an exile of taxation.
Help me to help you
to set this phantom
of yourself, set free.
Free, as if, in the course
of the divine expression,
“nothing matters”,
and saying it
in that light,
sets you free . . .
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