yesterdays-
where there is no curtain,
there is no cloud.

(it's always a longer drive on the other side.)

the flight back won't accept a round trip;
we are never quite right in the mediums where we work too much to eat dinner with our families. the coffee *** is whiter than walls, unexplored, unadorned, stunted from existing morally well-rounded or mature.

the prison industry complex is my backyard with pesticides growing green grass and tides rise as my greatest fears of inadequacy hide like colorblind fireflies.

i'll do what i can to survive.

i'll eat so i cannot read but
rather
surmise
so I can't taste oxygen like
a velvet sunrise,
hiding my yesterdays by maksing the destination of my drive,
simply a dichotomy of blood and
first prize.