California,
in the middle of a dry spell;
nevermind letters home to ma,
she's hopelessly opposed ...
this antiquated radio
plays frequented oldies,
singers posthumously mend
vibration to ear
in some degree
or another.
Squeaky old desk fans hum
they push humid air in the room,
noisy shuffles against pale walls
blow back on my sunburned face.
Why does Hell have to be so damned hot?
All I ever wanted
was for the reflections
at the bottom of the well
to come true
and
when I salivate
through muddled tangents,
I find only solace in actions,
familiar.
You were not made aware-
maybe that's a good thing for ...
I'd locate the key-that golden key
for its likeness, a brilliant door,
where secrets of the world scream inside.
Dont know what to do now that it's open,
reminds me be careful what I wish for.
It has become a giant monster
subservient to my innards and
control is just a meager means
to offer sanity.
~~~
.
.
Silver trophy winner
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