Pop songs play on overhead speakers. I stay tuned at Dunkin' Donuts.
I'm writing poems free on the internet, waiting. It's clean, as most D&D; are. A clean, well-light place for dragons.
The coffee is mild, black and busy. Talking people keep me awake but I need dopamine to catch saccades.
Are you sitting with me here on our failed distributed network? Poppa don't preach, I'm in trouble. Can you hear still born pop songs playing overhead?

I wanted to kiss
her knee-- a sharp
edged, angular,
comic book, superwomen
clean cut, streamlined
down to tapered calf,
to pointing toe-type knee.
Hers wasn't a square
worker's padded joint
for kneeling down.
Under sheet and pillow
I once found it
giggling with spastic
warnings!
Her knee was ticklish!
My heart never did
smooch her there,
fearing some reflexive,
paroxysmal laughter
would kick me in mouth.
Ouch. No kisses on the knee.

to the. I always.
I know. Noise falls.
the necessity. Strike One.
My body. When I.
your hair. I think.
it starts. So many.
What is. when I.
If you. The world.
i read. I was.
Wearing A. You're right.
I'm pretty. everything.
Your *******. It's like
Once upon. I brought.
I'm falling. obviously.
To the. It is.
I wouldn't. I wouldn't.
Your cup. i know.
the truth. you turn.
I checked. Leo.
you brought. your eyes
your lips. you are.
because. poison.
spoon.

Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they all disappeared
under disgruntled lovers throwing acid,
bleeding misbeloved employees glocking no joy,
displaced juveniles servicing denial
at station number 3?
Where are all the anarchist,
my friends, the needles of hay,
stacked balefully, systematically
against the marginalized barn
side door beneath exit sign 4.
Where are all the anarchist tonight?
Have they drunk too many Molotov
and can't find the Way,
and instead burn car, smell bushes burnt
and forgotten the **** up?

In the hour of chaos we belong;
chaotic good people right?
Misbehaved Spectrum disorder
transitioning during breath
and sigh, as we fight too evil.
Burning, over turning squad cars
in fat-tail distributions,
retribution on lawful evil,
ordered and repressed love at
tender protest mass.

Looking into Ow'yuhr eyes
to M'e Joself questioning,
asking, wondering what-do-
next, and expecting reflections
to tell, precisely, authoritatively
in godly-linked somehow,
but knowing the don't know
how, where, why or
what not are those ways
mysterious, My'our ways.

I need to go.
I am displacing
here.

Displaced Wednesday,
time to fast, not
for my health, not
for moral justice, not
to slow consumption, only
from dawn to dinner, a
lackluster way not
to restore dopamine, not
to suppress apetite
in some lateral, percussive
hypothalamus injury.
I fast in sync only
with voices and volume, doing
in mind emptiness.