my mind drifts, tickling louisiana moss
from the oldest bois 'd arcs aligning
my loose, fuzzy brain's perspective.
tricked! and i know roughly when.
fooled by Vonnegut's big brain disease.

it started the day i was born,
probably relented a few times
but otherwise Sisyphus knows
nothing about impossible strives.
daily. recurring. i shrug at Atlas.

a windy day brings me only sorrows
in another language, needed, unwanted;
yet i get Rio in the face, Calcutta
blind-sides me hiding in a Peking duck,
somewhere they sit; all in judgement.

i shelve this dream as unreal, nervously smirk.
a grown man beaten by a phantom in his mind;
out-played in nerves of imagination's steam.
and loathe to take up the sword of understanding
for fear my opponent will use age to get at me.

01/12/2008

Posted on 01/12/2008
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