Even with the mood lighting inside
this lethargy induced spiced chai
I find these things elusive
like good cell phone pictures of concerts
or, dare I say, a happy poet.

Despite generations of artistic indulgence
I find these things apathetic
androgynous, as it were
with indiscernible discrepancies drawing
daft conclusions from the quick-sought eye.

I too struggle to find the truth behind the lines.
I craft as though I know my medium.
I create broad sweeping arcs across
my own right side brain
but see them smudged and distorted, distended,
dripping their dynamics through the cracks in my floorboards.

Cinnamon vanilla maple ginger
shots at first class from coach
and here on my three foot throne
I squander the warmth of my ******* latte.