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…

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,

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,

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…

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.



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…


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…


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…

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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