Sly & The Family Stone bumping bass lines until early dawn, when the sun comes up and there are bottles and plastic red Solo cups littered around the yard, floating in the pool. Someone passed out on a floatie with their mouth open, wearing a light blue speedo. Oblivious and unconscious. Sunrise creeps in, first giving way to lighter blues and purples, before cresting orange and mysterious golden yellow, as that big side of butter next to pancakes, waffles, or french toast, makes itself known by hot, bright rays rousing even the most reluctant, sticking the knife in a hangover. Three cup trick where you have to find the golden nugget. Yukon Trail and levels ranging from Easy, Medium, and Hard. Cups get shuffled face down at a rapid pace. A game that’s existed for centuries, I’d imagine. A kind of ‘try-your-luck” type deal. A fox slinks away into a forest, bushy red tail following. Luxurious, but dangerous. Cute little black paws. The fox and the hound. Disney tears. Friendships torn apart. Makes us want to believe in fiction.


Cost-effective stock market price charts, red and green like Christmas Italian flags. Dopamine exile, Frankenstein silhouettes. Baby lace trophy, booties to boot. Escape artist drags eloquence through the mud and dirt, old 1935 squad car, living off potatoes poorly. Simple syrup, cabbage patch, seeds to grow into fantastical shapes, but this ain’t no Jack and the Beanstalk. Riches buried in the desert, breaking bad gluttony, greed. Menace, like blood dripping from the teeth of some villain, vampire, regret, rejecting it. Anesthetized time, stands still and becomes forgetful of all linear rules. Open, bright expanse. Heart beats. Sisko waits. Acid trip timeline bending to wills of gods and fates. This yin and yang balance and what lies beyond. I have lost my way. The thread has slipped between my fingers and I am no Perseus or Theseus. I have despaired in the labyrinth. Latching on like leeches to anyone who comes close, getting clingy and attached for fear this moment will change, for fear I will never see them again. Can’t make the choice. Scales in flux forever. Rules of gravity ever-changing.


Sid Vicious lives on in oceans of punk rock daydreams in our heads. Bass guitars blaring rudely through distorted sound effects, melodramatic posturing and aggressive movement dawns on stages whose floorboards creak at every stomp of sneaker. Sweat beads like a broken necklace whose string cannot find its clasp on the other end. A string of pearls hit the ground like rain. Beer become warm from the stage lights and sold out crowd. A scream heard from off-mic. I want to hear the guitars in my ears again, reverberations. The buzz coming up from the floor and spreading throughout us all. Harmonic togetherness in concert wholeness, oneness. Buddha with the brickface. What I wouldn’t do for an overpriced beer and a night out, a reminder that I too am alive and in this moment. Am feeling these emotions, or have felt them, have claimed and laid ownership to them. This world is traumatic and cruel. I do not want to live as a skeleton when I have not yet decomposed. Compass points North inside; one true thing. Light bulbs flicker on and cascade, like carnival, Jersey Shore boardwalk.


Wherever I aimless roam – Marvelous beaches, sparkling sand, glittering water. I taste salty dewdrops of the morning. They take residence on my tongue, reminders that all is flowing omnipresent; Should be marveled in a state of wonder. Yet, I remain constantly nonplussed. Take all things as given. Strangers’ bed comatose remains; Icicles that do not melt come summer. In the Mars Rover, Dune Buggy, over hills and down valleys as the motor sputters and gives out, I hear it call my name. The appeal of the emptiness and the glorious moments of what it must be like to be alone. I have forgotten the silence like I have forgotten what my bed feels like when I’m away from home for far too long. The shirts are all neatly folded in the drawer. The dust cascades in mists. Traveler, creature, wanderlust, dictionary cheat. Looking through binoculars, attempting to focus. Lookout watchtower from the pirate ship. No dramamine trades for an eye patch. Marvelously stupid idea. Playground rulebook. Methodology denied. Cannot argue someone else’s point of view.


Old magnetic tape recorder hissing in silence, rolls of tape spindle onwards catching every sign and dewdrop tear. Into protective box case it goes after the last chord rings out. We all know the wave gets smaller and smaller. Cuts and splices on the mix. I do not know the first thing about self-preservation or mind-numbing tendencies. Shaking like a leaf in an earthquake one fall morning. Brisk winds blow, weeping at my feet. I feel the thunderous boom and crack of the Earth splitting up, divorcing itself, swallowing me whole, as I listen to the one true thing that understands my emotional duress. Playpen war where the borders of countries are made with Fischer Price baby-proof materials. There is a gate where we bang our hands and cry out because we cannot get through. Writers block. It’s not going anywhere. There is the resounding pitch of air horns, warning in case of air strike. Must be triggering up to a certain age. I want to see bakeries open before the sun, and smell the streets before they are polluted by cars. In the future that I cannot imagine, I will probably surprise even myself. But for now, it is just humdrum, not enoughs and living in yesterdays and checking my phone for literally any differentiation or change, however minimal, even if it’s just the time.