by Ian G Graham.
Infinite regress causes its own suffering,
crucifying itself in a cold bath of its own resurrection.
So…
Can I avail that mask to search past the blockages in me?
Ockham at his workspace so little he wants,
playing in foxholes…
designing wormholes…
to transport him to Andromeda.
Perceptions are veneered hooters that sit on the face of intention.
Blind dirtiness of the senses that smudge insight…
Lucien James 
Leave a comment