among milkweeds and thistles,
on rocks and scraps of metal that tear our clothes,
in a mock lacking more than ivy,
but plenty of barbed wire,
the game is clean. unadulterated.
the slowest five seconds
birthed via a fundamentally sound
thing of beauty.
hands back, the other way.
ah the sweet spot.
we conjure trajectory: wind, speed. geometry.
run away!

chutes of straw lean
in the wind, the way they tap
gently on my knee,
or on the table.
they extend, slender,
and pop when they bend
back to a point
at the goodyear blimp

when i wake up from a nights typing i feel refreshed
as though i up-chucked for a few hours but brushed my teeth before
passing out for the night. i keep my eyes closed and often lose many sentences.
ones i rather enjoyed, too.

its a smelly pile or puddle on the floor,
usually near my bed or the garbage and i regard it as such,
however i do so often enjoy a little detective work
to see what didn't quite digest properly
and wonder if maybe i have irritable bowels;
or some kind of parasite.
the sour flavor tells me that even the mintiest
toothpaste sometimes a bit short of adequate
to relieve the eroded tender feeling on the backs of my teeth.
like maybe bile digests them away.

i often dream on writing nights
about how wonderful and wacky the world sometimes is.
but i usually wake up and in and unfriendly way,
remember what the score
is within just a few seconds.
the sensation of regaining consciousness and being uncertain
of your whereabouts is fleeting
but agreeable.
most times i dig that feeling;
though once aware i am generally unenthusiastic
or perhaps quite appalled by the surroundings
ive brought myself to endure.

even average mornings when the morning is the evening.
as i see it.
when there is nothing to do,
it does not particularly matter to anyone when you do it.
so long as it appears done or you believe it so.
maybe ill do something.
but as i plan it,
and cleverly smile to think i am so sharp, when perhaps someone arrives.