Alchemisland

I am here, my fractured mind.

The page still plain,

Me, in wait beside the bait

Praying, that words will be captured after a time;

That something to match my mood can be made

However rudely, however vain, however distasteful.

On and on and on, until a tennis ball dawn’s

Drawn on a saunter-haunted floor, through drawn curtains

My flesh, but whose intent I cannot be entirely certain.

Old flak wound in my back sustained in ’92 oozes clear green soup

A crust, crumbs as abut a freshly crunched croissant, haunt my good suit.