when drifting along,
wending onward
from the hurry-ups pursuing close behind,
time becomes its own atmosphere
immune from inconsequential nostalgic backfire.
we may notice we are nowhere in particular
breathing from our noses,
coping buds portable electric,
transitioning eventually into dancing dwarfs
ears filled with evening ragas
and any-way airmail rhythms
reverberating in constant hum
as time abandons its unbound atmosphere.
as we compose rhyme in phonebooth studyhalls,
the next nod dying into the next,
as we consider a single shift key
that's become immune to the tap:
"hey, peasant, want some mora inspiration?"
and lost in this euphoria
as the mind's shovel turns golden,
so antiquated from monotonous thoughts,
so random from soporific confessions.
and over at the next table
throw-up lovers collapse naked on the floor
victims armed with sweet Chinese dragon
watching them fade from sight,
any confusion or comprehension
strewn under the floorboards.
when time assumes its own dizzy atmosphere
consider the alternatives
while dodging convoluting wayward cobwebs.
none expect peaceful sympathy to follow.
composing prophetic letters.
outside this overdosed library a flute begins its calling.
underneath this sky some other destiny awaits.
grey street writers do not ponder sinking deeper,
do not recall alternatives,
only procede by closing more doors
thus propagating even more eager pages of verse latitude.
we have been asked if there's peace in nodding,
if there is more bread to seduce each other's appetite?
when words are at last formed
only then we may perceive clearer paths emerging
into far-removed mornings
inaccessible inside time's dizzy atmosphere.
Bisbee
7/6/74