Return me to the state of writing
of enigmatic expression
of cryptic conversations with myself
that only the stranger can
comprehend
even just a glimpse of
what meaning he can make
to relate and enjoin himself to it.

How did you get yourself
into such a spot, I ask.

No answer. Silence.
It does not move, does not stir,
still slumped over the tissue box.

You have been neglected,
haven’t you, I say.

Again, nothing.
It continues, even persists,
in remaining where it is,
in remaining silent.

There’s no aging in this wonderland,
where every single day
with a joy in our step a stress-free
existence in a heaven
by an air-strip
we dance, and dance, and dance.

the interest in that
liminal space
defining two (unnecessarily) contrasting
perspectives and viewpoints.

Mixed signals, teasing,
passing the ball from one court

to another.

And it has been a peaceful day
so far, a quiet beer
over a blazing afternoon
that has kept the crowds indoors
far far beyond the reaches
of the sun’s rays.

As though
there were a struggle
that the ego has just mediated,
and my conscious mind
merely seeks to absorb the remnants of
that fierce negotiation that
had taken place in the early,
dark hours of this very day.
Leading into queer openings
and a zombie sauntering
around.

Notions of love and beauty.
The correlation makes itself obvious.

A slowing takes place,
where time becomes elastic
like the supply line on an economics
graph
of a distant memory
and at the same time
heartbeats halt
breath taken away
by a single thought of a single person
who seeks a subjectivity beyond
the frame that covers all around
this particular canvas.

The stretching stretches me by the
ends of my limbs,
as I look to return to comforts
and satisfactions
defined by the simplistic
nature of a love so pure.

A lone taxi drives by
silently
in the distance.

I hear the whirring of
the fan in my room.
Papers and novel covers
kick up rythmically
and settle back down again.

A longing sits within me.