The idea that ideas are dangerous . . .
is dangerous itself.
Because it’s true.
Because everything is dangerous.
Even moderation can be carried to extremes.
Albert Camus spoke of limits.
But in an ever expanding universe with no edges . . .
where twisting turning space and time may be continuous or riddled with gaps . . .
where do limits come from?
Only clashes and interminglings?
Manifold vectors spinning through algorithms?
The statistical calculus of entropy?
exhaustion?
Or whitehole bursts of identity?
Our Brothers
Our Executioners
Our Ourobor0s
Slurping the dredgy runoff murk of the Pierian
Simmering in its piss
Their brains joltified by comicbook zaps of current
in dungeon basement lavatories
sealed off from dark electric skies
mostly hairless nodes
emptied by resentment and rejection
waiting for the swelling pulchritude of Eureka!
but condemned to strap on travis bickle heat
and turn
and stride
away from foggy mirrors
toward eyeballs full of ardor.
They are