Scrape-slap. Scrape-slap. By popular demand, the most annoying cadence.
The lungs breathe shallow. Breathing exhaust is like breathing chlorine.
Beaten and full of forgotten rain. I swim this pool to create a vortex.
These sewn nets are useless against the skin. Mosquitoes in the ear.
I meditate in the alley, my foot at the foot of bees.
Watch them come and go. Their interest is momentary. My interest is momentary.
Throw that rock. “Get a home!” cried out.
Pencils draw poorly on wetted stock.
The man of God. “Off my lawn!” cried out.
Awakened on a shooting range. Shells traumatized and confused, in small piles.
I gather a few. Polish the inside with my finger.
The small valleys rise to my shoulders at night. Crickets.
Oh the infrequent aid. What kept you going?
I imagined emergence from a portal.
Gray hair and beard. Tanned, battered skin.
A man of the real. Mastered in time.
Those small stones burned into my retina. The ghost still travels.
We diverge. I have returned.
