Change my situation, re-arrange my
consideration. Avoid evisceration, manuscript
mutation; delineation of my logic, analytical
optics, like hot spots in tropics,
Struggle, I, navigate collections of crowds,
inceptions of Nows; Me, the author with
sharp eyebrows. Shapes in clouds, deconstruct the
plates of loud politicians that want city limits in constant
contrition. Never the freethinker; we isolated,
remind the stated, words in irregular tapestry.
My Self, mad at me, oddly. It’s the poetry-
caffeine blend, probably. Never still, forever
anthologically thrill. Gothic undercurrent, prose
and verse, my chosen nerves. Cubist derivative,
I’m the truest superlative, with Petite Sirah dripping
into my works’ flaws. Mended, reflectively ascended.