minced up contemplation

chopped up thoughts of you
flow through my veins like
ink incarnate
stopping up highways
with blocked traffic jam aneurysms
at 3 in the morning

And it should disturb me,
but I'm just left with your silence

traumatic encounters with the real

you act out realities
as if that 4th glass wall
that actors never penetrate
wasn't there
talking straight
into camera obscuras that
sparkle like pupil pinholes as if frivolities
like subject-object interactions were
foreign to you because
Freud was a fraud only in the sense that
even he
had no idea
what he stumbled upon

your irises are tunnels into the 9th level of our imagination,
creating myths of retribution from holier places

and the chosen dialectic that dances lightly on your tongue
lies like a societal constraint,
tucked in under blankets of deception