a swivel chair.
motley rags strategically arranged
and aspiring to provide warmth and justice.
the armani-Saviour crucified inside
a twelve inch by sixteen inch frame
insists on homage for his deeds and misdeeds...
but the old man won't concede.
I try to cross the gradient and for my sin
am cast beyond, along the blinding darkness
of a dimensionless tunnel without
beginning or end...terminated
nowhere of knowing.
to reside within the confines
looking up...as if I were God.
lost in the shadows.
here remains remnants of once pure,
blissful, radiant ignorance,
done with eloquence.
left to converse
with those voices within.
passage is graceful, but requires permittance.
is sometimes of the other kind.
where was I? where was it that where is?
escape from where be probable?
excuses. better uses of overused
seeking to justify the prevalent
sense of apathy in this overwrought,
I know I will...it's
even if I did we all know the outcome of
that fairy-tale. sometimes I just
wish the pause button on the remote
control could work its hesitating magic on
something other than the VCR.