Yeah, we lace up in gelatinous mathematics only the future comprehends. But the kick is, the future can't turn around its Jezoid sandaled feet and speak to us. All we can do as present-day prophets is to disrobe our wants. In bedrooms between being a human body and what we never feel strikes a doomsday clock that slices off any connection with the unbounded we might well have assumed static. Yes, the reader of this poem is left in the lemon-yellow Jell-O mold of oblivion. How else would the whole shoe-store of time fit into its own shoe-box? We'd all have to try on new shoes that behoove a growing closeness, the dreaded mind-erasing loss of egoistic self. We'd be put to bed without due process for a walk we never agreed to in the first place. See, space is a tree yearning for the sky, licking wildly it's own face among stars it happens to know. And time? That clockwork serpent swigs on the matter between our furry ears just like so many worms in an apple gobbling on the free molecules of DNA: that joking blueprint of never we think. And the footwear part of letting go of momentary goes deep into the incongruous, senses the ocean of noise we approach, our technological wings a sort of mild euphoria.
DoubleSpeak 