regret in missing.
white washed
flat. black.
this house that Zorn built.
big. black.
this lap that Jones wet.
seeing,
through closed lids
and feeling,
usually below,
this time though
someplace higher
hearing,
but for the whirring human machine
silence.
and the voice of these
bellowing muses
in my gut
coming to from this road coma
stale air on a stained street
(which is real?) what. is. real.
unclear
i choke myself awake.
somehow,
whole again.
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