Cupped hand on chin watching people having a good time on Lennox avenue. Have you ever read a Cummings poem then read it again and watch the content change from innocent to perverse?
In the clubs conversation swirls much like that, flat intonation minus punctuation, do they flirt or flip you off?
In my room backlit by a bare bulb the numbness in my arms and mind escalates; poetry is sometimes a gift filled with healing power, at other times its abandonment feels like a curse. Vague face in the mist, my sometimes talent turns on me leaving me forsaken.. Chasing words is like trying to catch the tail of a comet, the symbols manifest in strange tattoos while the alignment looks totally alien. The hour is late and my eyes burn with exhaustion yet I won't submit to the shadowy being who snidely smiles and sprinkles sand.