The skybox

Consciousness creates reality

as if we were children at midnight

you could trip and fall face first

down a dark—down a neon—chasm

so hold on tight and don’t let go until

it’s something subtle like a shift in the wind

or a call of a bird you’ve never heard before

like things with spikes on the outside

a dirty old guitar string that still sounds good

when you do that one thing with your hand

and the other one taps along like a drum

never playing the same thing twice for no one

just to feel a spectrum of waves wobble

through the warmth of suncrept bones

the unknown resonant frequencies of organs

and the relaxation of a jaw they moved

with bands across a desert of my skull

to form a monument of death is watching

waiting for the koto to start plucking itself

in the corner of the skybox of time

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