Because I am stoned 1st time
in years the clouds play tricks
with my eyes, the sun cools
down the lengthening shadows
and my steps are within (myself:
my home). This little heart of mine.
Thinking it must be hilarious that we
already found the suburbs and they
weren't nearly as slutty as we had
imagined they would be. Mom was
caught in an ice storm. That shook
us to the core (do not try to peel me!).
Dad was sitting lotus-style in his pod
which is not something to which one
listens, but instead, keeps noises in their
proper places. So he could hear naught
from within nor without (said pod). My
thoughts, those that are mine, what con-
sists of my mind, are two trains attempting
to pick up each of the individual Pick-Up-Stix
without moving any of the other Pick-Up-Stix;
are not intending to crash into each other,
to be jerked from their rails into a catchy
medley filled with upper-class death, though
as the game persists, even if metaphorically,
they are coming at each other directly,
each at a high-class speed that is most
certainly not to be sneezed at. This is
a bit nervously witnessed by men on
horseback. They are extras in a West-
ern being filmed about a mile away,
and are now each wondering at what
speed it is appropriate to sneeze. The
Stix, I realize, startling myself a bit,
were actually made of plastic. I always
attempt to summarize, to rationalize.
Is it my nature or is it inherently human?
The fog, which wants to roll in this instant,
is nowhere to be seen, but, once here, will
erase everything that has come before it.
