I saw a picture of me, when jumping squares were chalked to the sky, left there by jet streams and understood as magic. Untailored shirt sleeves and broken skin I sat, thinking of the future- a possible dawn of thought waiting to be blanched, stored then used when needed. And now the same boy sits, sweatered and hopeful, and running out of world. I rushed to scribble a word then two on a parking ticket, hopeful to pass it through the plain that stood between me and me; until I realized I already knew what it said. And where is the good in words when rain can be made or not depending on the bidder and the cost of cheetos.

A blink that lasts until the dream seem
real. They never come to me, were to

active in thought, I knew, to look
past the sea that flows there,

when the eyes are busy, looking
behind. An incorrect
state of mind.

I ventured here to find them seized?
Because the words you spit,

drain me of rhyme. You live across
the land so dry, and getting here took

three horses-but you sour tagged breath

still finds its victim. How dare you.