Poetry - "Reified Patterns"

To the man who cried death
on a deserted road with no dog,
No man can know
the day or hour
When Blue Origin
does its next
exploration.

Hot dogs and nicotine gum
while I obsess over
the prophet Elijah
and the absurdity
that I chose this life.

I am in love with desire itself,
and every time I clean
the drains
of reified patterns,
conceptions and beliefs.
Isn’t every religion an egregore?
How do I express myself
in linear patterns
or try to explain God’s will
in a non-theistic system?

You’re not an atheist
nor agnostic, for you
sleep with yourself,
but I already swore off
preaching and convincing.
I, a master manipulator
of broken dreams,
laziness and addiction.

What does it mean to
ask a question,
break out of fear or to open a door, open a window?
I found on my desk
an inanimate serpent,
such a pure contradiction,
like wondering if you
even know what I mean.
As if we are separate
as if I could ever stop writing
for commodification purposes.

I thought my life was over when I befriended
a sex-offender,
so imagine my purpose when I called him, without resentment?

A spiritual telegram never delayed,
and yet everyday
I drink a gallon of coffee.

They say that joy is found within, so this morning I went looking, and found her, tiny and strangled, in the midst of my chest. Hello, good morning,
the power of thinking, watching my thoughts and speaking only kind words
without ill-intention.

I’m tired of rolling my eyes and reified patterns. Let the pain of pure bliss break through the Light Shells,
aye, like a blacksmith wielding his hammer,
am I
even?