These things that connect, the fragile and wrecked. the stations that pass by, the tear in the minds eye and being in on the infinite is a poor mans excuse for misusing the finite,

I am 4am in London, Paris, New York and in Rome where I roamed sparring with Spartacus, reading Leviticus and dining on octopus,
something connects even in the disconnect,
the neurons still fire haphazardly
testosterone kicks in quite frequently and
the Bishops requested a meet with me.

I want Hawaii
not Bexhill-on-sea
and not the inquisition
which they may have in
mind for me.

I dive in and intentionally
to the motion
of the unknown sea
waiting to be coughed up
in an alternate Galaxy
where limbo is a disco
on the 39th
parallel.