This community, this xanga-thing is like a mini-spiral
galaxy hologram to me.
Run around it, I can, like indians once
did in circling stagecoaches.
Or like I do my Dreamland. 
Or turn my head at an angle and change its axis of rotation.
(I can.)
Or ignore it, bump into it, and not even know its there.
(Sorry.)

From a distance its just a dizzy, spinning thing.
If I gaze in, I can see details of some of you unhappily trapped.
Some of you undismally untrapped.  Some unaware of the difference.
You’re all little miniatures of
yourselves—“yini you’s” to me.
Or is that “yana you’s” of the
Hina or Maha variety?
Lingums and yonis are
centrifugally entrained in this vivid projection:
Guys and gals floating their
affairs, I take it, floating their affairs.
Some are protected, others
projected, most just neglected.

So sad the rotational mismatch of
so, so many.
The searching, beseeching many.
So joyful the gyrating enlightenment
of the fleeting few.
The far-flung, exceptional fools.

But more than just a visual
modality, sense now the synesthetic:
The swirling of it all cascades into
a creaking.
The creaking from within emits bright,
slashing lasers.
The lasers melt in my (your) mouth,
not in our hands.