I'm lost, in a labyrinth of twists and stalemates,
Adrift on a raft of sticks, spit, and namesakes,
Gripping the helm with white knuckles and splintered wrists,
Abandon ship from one blistered fingertip,

A treasure map scrawled to waylay my steps,
"Eighteen, get a degree, take 10 paces, left,"
Wait with bated breath, just for a vacated chest,
Wish the masters would stop clocks; playing chess.

The guy in these picture frames is roulette,
Dropped from black to red, two cents, bootleg,
Counterfeit, forgery, patented blown potential,
An outline traced with a broken pencil,

A crooked nib and a handful of ink stains,
Splotched paper with the brand of this kid's name,
Crinkled and torn up, soon to be ash in a bucket,
Tossed to the corner, overflowing the stack of a hundred.