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We Change our Name to Charlie Rat-Pig just to Unlatch Heads from this Typical Suitcase Poem

I reassemble myself well inside the scope of non-duality, which we deem salubrious or at most, biological. Waking up as the same person who went to bed the night before would be like time-travel. It never happens. I mean, which “me” is this in here, anyway. Genetically, my bacteria outnumber, making this box of skin their cozy home. And then, just before the commercial break, Rod Serling comes around the corner from another room, gestures with lit cigarette between fingers, says something like, “Bobby could never have sensed his unblinking erasure in this paradox.” A panther claws on the attic floor, wanting to come down, but we’re staring into each other’s eyes and don’t want to break the connection. As Descartes, I drum, therefore we undress. You melt, therefore I nickname trippy licking. I come apart, therefore you undulate your flagella’s alien plant life. You sleep, therefore we practice planet fall, cradle our prelapsarian egg. 

The dolphins fluke your aqueous humor’s curve in another planet’s gravity, a headspace I unlatch like a misplaced suitcase. Synchronicities demystify this excursion, a tantric dementia anomalous to resurrected flesh. I’m barefoot in the subterranean ballroom of your bouquet, and my synaptic microcosm sings its chemistry, music your ears need never unpack. But don’t worry, on another page I emerge a solipsism in this canticle, shape a glassy-green flask of casual self-aggrandizement, a hyper-expansion we relish like the asset-grabbing juggernaut who confronts us about our wait in baggage-claim. We unlatch Charlie Rat-Pig just to change our suitcase from this poetically typical name.

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