Hey, what are you doing?
Don’t tell me, though.
I honestly don’t care,
just thought I’d ask,
wearing my Himalayan mask.

Eleven at night on a Tuesday;
arrow pierced my nose,
leaking dusted snot,
head a drowsy mass,
a dizzy, unfathomable knot
beckoning me into a slumber,

yet I feel this tranquil
half-conscious state
as I hear the ever dear
lonesome crowded west,
all the while ******* in
the crust of plate tectonics,
that hypnotic spell
of the devoted neurotic,

and in a few
the lights will finally perish
and my Styrofoam boots
will once again
walk on ice.