The Fever


The Fever

Enter white energy, strange
electric recycling of senses—hearing,
and seeing, and feeling, this, am,
those, their—the grand bells toll,
the experiencer begins to disappear,
wanting has only begun this day


The Delirium

Quo it frar et core em sil miro ma—
Sims si dar en do feg icks sil sit ef,
bere bere ed nil mis im sib
arer rer asag dar mela samsa deb
bara eg drot dim mib flo gop ips ba.


The Transition

Projection of self against infinite
black sheet—like heavens—empty, hollow
or accumulation of in-between spaces
in a space itself, becoming truly singular,
effort ceases, ego bores through sameness—
the bells are silent—me, my, here, on, at, in,
indescribable clarity, presence of angels,
majestic almshouse, fluid-filled—crystal
mystery music, the very first vibrations—
life and unremittingly

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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