mellow

sophie's good evening
counters shayne's gentle goddamnyou
and i'm left in liniality
trying to skate my eyes just fast enough
to catch a glimpse of something still,
something steady.

a whipsaw cowboy slows down, rolls down, and elbows out some profundity:
"life is no place to convalesce"
and a siren hesitates in her careening to whisper,
"Incredulity is the new enlightenment".

if you told me that the suicide rate among electricians
is significantly higher
i wouldn't raise my eyebrows,
i wouldn't shrug,
but i would pray for A.C. -- bless her, never take her.

what kind of a pen pal is this bottomless well?
is common interest enough? for you and i, for now?

if this is not the time and place
to wrestle with sexual dilemnas,
then where? when?
pray tell.

i can be cheeky too.

how can retrospection reconcile itself
with this bravado for next?