Another Day.

It’s November in February. It’s odd in evening. It’s San Francisco in Ireland. It’s cold in keys. It’s bravery in calliopes. It’s mystical in flames. It’s peace and truth in candles. It’s Transylvania in tapeworms. It’s grout in eyes. It’s breakneck speeds in physical therapy equipment. It’s horns blaring in teacups. It’s blackmail in Gnostic rituals. It’s bands in pudding. It’s memories in Mars dust. It’s always a hand in front of my face. A stumbling block in the dunes. And an accident in your field of vision. In a gypsy wasteland, it’s a wall to crash through. The tundra. If it’s in time, it’s in mezzo mar, un paese guasto. In trips, it’s rolling. In magazine pages it trolls in my swelled head, made of grandfather, lost. It’s past, in colony of dreams, redoubling each minute, a cluster of frog’s eggs. I is a doubtful river-crosser, using sticks to support himself in the frigid whorl. It’s avocado in continent before the drift. It’s at the midpoint of my life, I find myself in an obscure selfishness. It’s a good bet that everyone I’ve ever made love with is asleep right now, at 11pm Arizona time, December 1, 2006. It’s December in February. The skies are whis’pring change. I’m Change.