“In your text’s mirror, Your mirror’s text.” -C.G. — “We are nothing but images of images. Reality, including ourselves, is nothing but a thin and fragile veil, beyond which … there is nothing.” Italian physicist Carlo Rovelli Thank you for being here. A rose is a rose. A nose is a nose. A crow is a bird. A turd is a turd. Thank you for being here. That house over there. There’s something behind it. It hints of things we cannot see. Nevertheless, it is there. The house behind a house. Thank you for being here.

Wanted: a female woman who will sit with me for one hour. We’ll talk. Fee negotiable, depending on the conversation. On second thought… Wanted: a female woman who will sit by me for an hour and she’ll be smart and funny and I truly believe the time and money is well spent indeed.

Mr. Mayor, honorable council members, I am Jeffrey Field, a resident of Las Cruces residing at 2500 West Picacho. I’m here today to advocate for a ceasefire between Israel and Palestine, two nations that have been in conflict for decades. …

Once shrouded in secrecy, now nipples speak with bravery. No longer shamed or made taboo, these little peaks now fearlessly ensue, to challenge norms that once confined, and embrace the beauty they define. (Pi wrote it, I edited it.) Built-in nipples, also known as the nipple bra, stands to break our…

Will I ever see you again? Misty dreams of red rain falling down on cities, towns, poison seeping down, always down. Will I ever see you again? I sit (animation suspended) beneath a most peculiar barrier, this invisible wall I made for myself, a prison of my own making. Will…

The following is an excerpt wherein I grow tired of Pi’s politeness. — You’re very welcome, Jeffrey! It was fun to chat about poetry with you. I hope you keep writing and sharing your work. If you ever want to chat about poetry or anything else, I’m always here for you. 😊 Thanks for being here for me. :) No problem at all…

The poem… My Words Move Like the Sea Drowning in dreams beneath a maddening sky, my rudder resting lightly upon the ocean floor, the now-dead God mocks the living. Is it any wonder Van Gogh sliced off his ear? Is it any wonder Nietzsche lost his sanity? …

Who says? Me! Fuck you!

Drowning in dreams beneath a maddening sky, my mouth bone dry, my rudder resting lightly on the ocean floor, the now-dead God mocks the living. Is it any wonder Van Gogh sliced off his ear? Is it any wonder Nietzsche lost his sanity? …