How do I gauge the realness of my sight? The lensing method,
Allowing me to see, corrupts itself. I exist via a glitch
By the function of my phantom vision:
By eyeing the horizon,
I spark the horizon, yo-yoing sailboats side to side. Truths ripple to lies,
Rippling to questions. I net one on the glow of a firefly:
Why do we inquire what we imagine? Because reflections speak back.
An image of you declares its autonomy, talking no longer as you.
Lakeside houses kiss their
Mirrored doppelgängers,
As nonchalant as orange peels,
Sun-liquefied to flames,
Fire-coating water, and
Reddening golds up the sky. You smell the acidic spice
From snowy mercury sizzling inside your nostrils.
The stench of the real burns your eyes.
The robust potency of authenticity stings.
However convincing our fantasies,
We wish for the flesh of numbers,
Metabolizing equations upon equations,
Faster than we can calculate.
Truth lives inside homes that hang upside-down. Orienting myself,
I reverse the dream, and find reality. My shadow’s freedom makes me honest.
Honesty conjures hesitation that leaps inside you.
Watch the dilation of your imagination, taking in the room’s light.
The countertop radicalizes iridescence. Ideas, rendering themselves
Inside the kettle, inspire the boiling point of transcendence. Imaginary dragonflies,
Mattering ascension of a whistle, buzz to higher fruitions:
Now sip the tea of your creation.
Choices, illumination’s far wingspan, solidifies anything.
Stretch with vastness. The smokiness of eyes hallucinate their gaze,
So hallucinate a visionary avalanche. So tonight,
We revolutionize the ceiling.
Steven Leonardo Clifford hybridizes different artistic identities into a hodgepodge of experimental disciplines: While he’s primarily a poet, Clifford proclaims to be a gonzo historian, currently chronologizing his experiences as art director and co-founder of the local zine, THE SCENE. He also practices street journalism, providing coverage for open mics, sometimes included in his zine’s newsletter, Blood Cells.