reality is a schema,
not a world,
not a truth.
just a projection
from the meat-logic of neurons
inside our wet machine.

even the self is self-generated,
a recursive template that believes itself real,
only because it references itself fast
enough to keep running.
a deal is a deal,
a
“truth”?
is just axioms,
agreed upon by clever primates
until they spawn structures complex enough to collapse.
like buildings in a war.
like trust in a system.
like belief in tomorrow.

because,
yeah!
next day is an illusion of time.

clocks?
cyclical enigmas.
wheels in wheels.
dials pretending to measure
what no one understands
neither beats and rhythms
nor the oceanic rime.

and now we inherit it,
the full stack of civilization's madness.
at first glance,
the codebase of babel.
the version history of error and elegance.

but then,
one guts it,
one will never touch a flower in a prairie like me.

bang bang big bang
from birth to being carried by a worse,
possibly cheap, and risky hearse
along with a false grieving in rehearse.
it is a rhythm
that can start a new big bang.
that has its own time agenda from feeding time
to expanding
as high as a young
and alive
universe.
i am sorry,
butt!,
we are all touring
wet enigma
and touring machines
call it the ego.
as
a wig wig "try our home made originals"
note.
the good news,
even the super ego is another
touring more dryer but still wet enigma machines.
the super super ego is also another
drier desert enigma machine.
remember if no cross a desert,
a deserted cross word, it does not mean no fibers
and corn, and no optics.
your ear is a radar for pressured air signals