Breakfast food for thought?

Imagine by scratsmacker from pixabay

I’m thinking something,
So I apply mind’s heat to the mind,
And hit the shell on the pan,
but nothing cracks. In my hand is an apparitional egg of thought
That passes through consciousness’ pan. Nevertheless,
the coded DNA of thinking is cooking in the flame,

are eggs we protect,
Fragile shells we do not test,
But the mind cannot break an egg.

The yolk astral projects
over the shell
and investigates itself,

outside and inside thought.

The yolk brings questioning dreams to the yolk’s dreams of questions:

Double-yolked Morpheus,
the dual dreamer,
is the metacognitive doer,
actionizing a vague, passive thought so I can analyze this poem:

I flip the thoughtful…

Image by cocoparisienne from Pixabay

How does one direct their thoughts?

In silence…

In darkness…

In awareness of the world,
I, this fragment of existence, become a concretizer,
bulldozing metaphysical forests wherever I walk.

They flourish feverishly from all objects

Like the black chair, of mortality
Where one sits to feel the body,
So, one remembers death,
And therefore, also living.
Or the ceiling limiting my knowledge of the stars above,
Or the floorboard grounding me to earth,

But I look away, shifting to my other side in bed,
and they blur to near-nonexistence:

Trees falling

Trees falling

Trees falling.

Whenever I try to guide…

A poem about the first party since my vaccination

Image by Sumanley xulx from Pixabay

For every nanosecond of our lives,
A randomizing atomizer scrambles a soul’s ingredients
And boils them to / a conscious vapor,
Hovering, hugging the eyes as I look at a taxi,
Approaching me. The driver says my name. “Steven?”

Strobing self-remembrance flashes the self,
In temporary spans, but by the zillions,
So, my awareness appears to be a constant:

A flickering light in darkness I call myself.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say,
Entering the taxi.

The driver looks over his shoulder
At my arbitrary physical configuration
Where I stylize my brainwaves
In response to stimulation from the world:

Sideways pouring…

A prose-poem investigating the occupation of emergency dispatchers

Bucharest, Romania — February 11, 2020: Shallow depth of field (selective focus) image with 112 emergency number operator (Romanian version of 911) having a conversation with a distress caller — Photo by Mircea Moira from depositphotos

The cyclical bridge looping same days is the worst stagnation; motion without change, no outlet to adolescent Atlantis of timelessness, passes the same synaptic graffiti, burned on adulthood: a hoarder of emotional junk at a bus-stop, the number of the transit to weightlessness forgotten.

There’s another pass on the cyclical bridge.

The walls have culminated more unwanted tattoos.

But on Sundays the childlike dispatcher rebuilds Atlantis with corridors of lost-tracked-days to wonder, and emerald towers renew themselves each time sighted (melancholic windows seen one second, ecstatic peaks noticed the next, tough blocky designs after, and then softness of curves).


A prose-poem of abstract expressionism

Image by Alexas_Fotos from pixabay

Slow-hypnotize the flow,
And the bolt,
of the arm / creeps along the table for the mug. In the delay,

causality’s moonlight,
(The reflection of a moment taking on a life)
shine-twines with the next moment:
sipping coffee, I think,

my cloud of willpower must not drift the day.

And so, there’s two parallel rivers,
The world’s ghost,
Haunting its
World —

becoming a confluence,

one affecting the other
in onion-layers of osmosis.

Floating probabilities bond into one possibility
via a decision: the urge to move there urging my body to the dresser.

I dress myself in unnamed searches.



Birth zooming from the sexual revolution to
the generation of potential STDs,

AIDs-phobia precedes the date,

as I lean in for the kiss. She’s looking at her phone,
for a satisfying substitute for reality and real people

like this date.

I turn to my virtual Jesus, our personal Lord, and Broadcaster,
showering us in holy pixels faster than the sound of reality.


“Technology can now revolutionize stillness!

… to vicarious experiences of motion!” SUBSCRIBE NOW!

I click the link.

Lips of rampant hyper-sexualized media are perched and ready.

Ads, pierced to her nose, flash,
Outshining the ugly men and women, dimmed in the background.
In the foreground, glow the attractive ones…


Two butterflies,
White and thin as paper,
Fold/unfold in fluttering twirls,

Of binary code.

Dancing ones and zeros flirt among the sky,

Problem-solving the permanence of yellow suburban houses,

Angling down to their equation:
the heat-buzzing streets / pulsate with a frequency-interference
as an anomaly of an 8-wheeler rumbles pass.

Mathematic metropolises are bustling around a flock of swirling birds.

Despite wars, politics, and bureaucracies,
The grass takes its time to grow.

The rain,
Darkening the pavement,
is indifferent,
but wets us with indirect communication.

Around threads of thinking wire-balls

Steppingstones zigzag,
Leading to arithmetical sun-rays of the world,
that alter the numbers of our…


Based on true events

Wolfpack-collective unconscious, weaponized for war, surge with exhilarating camaraderie, webbed, snaring fear, devoured for strength by motley species of spiders known as “Marines.” Exhilarating camaraderie, de-weaponized for peace, narrows to one, my father. Remove the weaponized collective unconscious, and the war remains, in silence.

Beware the idyllic blue sky; chameleonic deception mimics the color of peace, almost convincing marines there is no war, but not enough to set Sargent James Clifford at ease. As a sound first, a warning boils the skies with mechanical whines of jet engines until — from invisibility — an airborne brimstone is unleashing bullets. …

Steven Clifford

Clifford is a writer and poet from Long Island, NY. He’s “mentally Ill” but considers it a gift with consequences from a generous muse.

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