By: Joey Gyarmathy

i shoot through it all

rebooted and rejuvenated

still the wretched and

twisted faces of murmurers

haunt my gut with feels of

pain and

wicked remembrance of glancing

through a kaleidoscope

nostrils dripping with ice

toes exposed to 7 below

no reds and rice


celsius my toes stay warm in two pairs

socks and pants

cream cheese and coffee in one hand

and the ai invasion in the other

brisk nights two or three

stops from bedford reassociate me

the crisp telekinetic contact of an interested outside observer

warm the love of the ness of it all in my chest and my head

the ness

jellyfish birthing curious

cosmic burp we play in

from the first time we woke from eternal sleep

to the time we shall return closed eyes

for a last final rest

that rest is futuristic fuckery to me now

so back to the

the ness

that which is everything

beautiful and pure about our heavenly existence

now here we are heavenites shooting through the seeming void on the organic death star

the earth our vehicle home and mother

here now my carhartt warms my cold body

i; able to write dream and ponder my visions

visuals and visitations shooting through subterranean

capitalistic cult-built hyperspace

seems to be the relatively unguessed equalizer of the city in metrograde

checkers on my shoes and propagandic posters ahead the cracked out jesus sits across from me

instead of offering him my bagel

i; on the excuse of cetera and the rest

turn the other cheek.

and weep.

sometimes i wish we could trade for a day whether it’s in my interest or the nazarethian wanderer is beyond me.

for the crazed and intrepid travelers

lost in the idiosyncratic sauce of life

i write this now and for the persistence through the treks and hajjisms of urbane nomadism

may the holy dharma grant u peace

and comfort as uncontrollable and irresponsible things before my birth have given me mine. 


A version of this originally appeared in “Comfort” The Teller November 2019 Issue #8

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