He was a god without a prayer. A master without self-–realization.

Or a combustible appropriation— a snap chat for neurons.

Something that runs like blood. Electricity. The Sun.

Something that takes that step …

off the side…

without a second thought.

Confidant GOD will intervene…

Send angels….good vibes…

or it’s a plunge to an inglorious obliteration below.

No in-between. No measure of happiness.

No reason for sadness. Eternal psychic pallor.

Bardo bedlam a new normal.

 DEAN BALSAMO

MULTI-MEDIA PIECE BY THE AUTHOR