ms. __________ want’s her afternoon back…

holler down

just after three and i’m beyond
caring how good i feel. tying
a stranger’s glove around
my throat, tightly wound makes
breathing difficult, but what should
i expect in this swamp? all by my own
volition chained to hand grenades
swapping vertical for horizontal.
certainly movement;
by now uncontrolled.

i finished kicking around purgatory
in the flash of an off chance phone call.
planned meetings and such,
exchanges. the execution of business.
finally something i know how to do.
today we’re in the business
of feeling better, avoiding
citi bank in the clouds
and pigs on the streets. i swear,
i hadn’t any clue
it would be so simple.
only the logic of De Quincey
is to blame.

acidic aftertaste aside, there’s cuban music
like Scott Kirby heard on his teak-boat trip
for purposes of mood. shifty light,
flashing LED’s, textures for feeling
sentience and invincibility. no need
for a “next move.” this one’s
doing fine by me.

i rescued my friend from behind
thick glass via a strangers
cool grasp. liberation from Descartes
feeding synergy within the experience.
i found a savior because i needed to;
extrapolate the afternoon search for meaning
based on that.

later on i’ll shuffle back
to the sunlight and watch
shadows dance on asphalt.
if the show ain’t inside,
by process of elimination,
it’s gotta be outside.
happiness is such simplicity.
even afternoon saviors
arrive in small bottles.
reinforcements turned the tide.
simple as that.


Words don’t exist to explicate mornings like this. Dedicated to my afternoon savior. The least I can do is use the gifts I have been given to thank you for giving me back some semblance of sanity. I’d say I owe you one, but we both know one wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

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