Our Everything

I'm watching 

this seagull

breakfast on

creamed crow.

That's just

another clock,

a daylight night-light

reminder

of impermanence

and diffusion.

Time 

is a tyrant.

Everything living

is it's propaganda.

We are

strapped into

plastic consciousness

to unwillingly

witness 

prescribed tragedy.

I occult 

the unintelligible

and random

to 

my first person

singular.

The cypher 

is threading

the awful

and ecstatic,

issuing the call

back to a place

that holds no place,

holds no where,

holds no when,

but 

is our everything.