Tripping on Lynch
and sipping a fix mysteriously
digitized while any friction
imprints onto my drifting mind.
I used to wonder if the missing time
disappeared into the wicked "Why"
until it proved that concern was
the hidden eye that's twitches
behind the lid of the night sky.
it's indifferent to the light that splits
blissfully prismatic,
these dimensions lack what we wished they did.
That's a sick sadness to witness.
Believe that.

Tragic like the traffic lights reflected
what's left the windshields of smoking cars.
Bent steel,
horns blaring,
gas leaking onto cracked concrete.
Stars hang silent as the space between them.

Comfort zones.
I abandon those even better than I used too.
So pursue what you want.
Because as you can see I don't hesitate.
I chase narrative threads
like a pretty face in a crowd.
Being dead to things that chain you
to the proverbial radiator is good.
I promise.