Mind

nothing amiss, ambient flickers of a cozy eyes apparently dulled with all the minute errors like pollen finer than dust sprinkled on a toad's porous skin oozing out all that umami broth into soup thickening, scowling reflections of an adjacent frog whose grin

these days the noise becomes more electrical than signal with live wire blasting a hole in my heart. not beating.

fire without a scheme to - blend in. sticks out like a mark waring the flag of fatigue, and he is weak in the knee when suddenly hit by the conman on the run to alley ways long shriveled with the sun's glares

a possibility turns to a certain fact, lived as a certain fate, becomes self fulfilling - but logic makes no dent on passion wild, it will be, it has to be; becomes the haunted cry of the wailing banshee. for what else could be said of the mad man repeating the same chant each day?

that a glance became something more, that a fight up that hill taught a village simpleton how real battle actually works, that swords forged from the river styx cuts the soul, that subtlety is an art that is often hinted, implied

there is a tap on the shoulder, there is a green light but the cars are stopping, there is a cross eyed bird giving a middle finger, there is a will power instinct and a rumbling in the stomach, there is a keep grounded while the tiles are burning, there is a meaning behind words if your name starts with z,

today i was rushed - by a flock of kids running with chirps like a thousand birds; their laughter keen, contagious, candid and it felt like a snow flake in a sea of murky, gray, sliding slippery surface brittle. the plastic faces of the many adults with careful hellos, tight voices, wariness from a bombardment of every day nuances, of topsy turvy: trying to make sense it would appear

today you can scratch at truth, and it will. wither. fragment at touch - with all your friends telling. tales. too stretched to be any good, then the movements begin, the swaying, the hips going about like a drunk too wide away and at the same time; washed with

sounds right, sounds reasonable when skin plastered on the flesh - is fake. put on a tattoo and there is a meaning, to that ink mark. or none. does it matter? skin is perception, perception is reality

a glint in the eyes, a fire an elbow digging into hips or a vibe so thick it may as well have been solid. but. the lawyer is unable to make up