The haze of that world is green

but in truth,

it is not a haze.

It is a searchlight,

barren and industrial,

it folds like a hammock.

We have not slept for years.


I peel the sludge

from my nose,

my breath blows

light, a hapless newborn.

I always saw the shine,

slick and seedy on

the pavement. We all slipped

at times and rose like titans,

eliciting fragments of conversation.

Now, to our detriment.

And me, behind a casual palisade,

watching, not trusting man to control it.


So, the haze is unconditional.

I direct the searchlight.

Our grim delights,

now comatose.

The regal pioneer,

with his legs of bamboo, wades through,

the hand of the mob caressing

his wizened flesh,

sprawled across him,

greedy roots.

His glittering eyes no nothing of this,

as I lean to tear him out of the fabric.