8-7-15

I’m on the hunt for the right thought. The woods where the words hide Are too dense for detection. Mild green salsa Drips from the sky above me, Gooping the top of my head up. (Nothing I’ve created is to be trusted. All is a foreign mess to me.) Mass ended long ago. They all went in pieces, Kicking and rolling into cotton balls that wisp across my ears Through thickets of gnarled thought. (How I wish to be heard. How I wish to wish to be heard.) If only I could remember What it was I going to say. "You can't rely on others," chimes Coach Self, "Make your own magic."