Thursday, July 7, 2011

Makeshift Route

I jump from sentiments to ideas.
Below,

hazard-mania of a populace jolts.
And I yank my gait,
unknown noise blaring from the dementia block.

Glints of figures waver before bleach-saturated trees.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
fused to my arm, (The drugs decaffeinated, yet still pepped)
“Theme acts as plot!” I marvel,

and glares devolve the erratic parking-lot.
I regurgitate diluted nirvana,

thinning out the gout in my temples. But the midday crisis of concentrated slums
mount my city line. jumbling as

a hooded dot shivers up

enlarging,


until the lock of her hair bulges out
against her pale, sweaty face.
She’s oblivious to

the comfort in Morse code,
hissing out from the car alarm on the fritz. Her features full frontal,
I draw back my proximity, eliminating ruminations on thought.
Conversing with her? Think;

kicking a stone with

morose dynamics, down the

fidgety horizon. Fading its last depression.
If I take this detour-- where
construction workers loiter, newspaper funnies spread like wings
at the corner-- then crowding myself is selective:

dissipation.

--Steven Leonardo Clifford was born in 1984, and lives in New York. He’s diagnosed with Schizoaffective Disorder, and remedies his mental illness by writing poetry and fiction.

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