and it is thus that we paint the forwards of our brains
in muddy red paint, and it seeps to the middle,
clogging, nullifying hope, the dream of the damned-
the cooler outside seeming more pleasant
dancing and inebriation filling the shapely flask-
warm breath making that cold steam and disappearing
which of you has climbed the mountain and grasped
the ugly and heartbreaking edelweiss?
the moment slips through your deft fingers, moistened with dew-
driving back and reconnoitering – it’s like i never left –
i am nothing outside, a man who writes haiku inside –
the grand bises anoint the worthy, but i sit with my feet in the river.
this voice scratching through my breast-
is it really mine?
as i run, my memories become hotter,
they come close to boiling,
such is the kinetic energy of another day wasted.