Author's Note: They tell me signs are just a way of cleaning up vomit.



Memories amplified by illusions

strung accidentally with a plan

that Freud crafted to give one contusions

absorbed ociddentally by man.



Dreams reworked in this panopt, awakened

by the vice that virtue meant to keep--

Revels that may be a means from an end

don't matter, we round them with a sleep.



Tell me what stuff you have made your dreams of.

Deconstruct your lives. Bring out your dead.

Feed me the only word crafted for love,

drop poems as the furs you want to shed.

Go, and shatter these scattered memories--

Let the world play all their right melodies.



-The Jesse J. R. Jennings (12-2-2010)