like lounging on a boat made of minerals
would disguise me from the waves on the water.
My throat is laid bare by the feathers of the phantom
heap. Decidedly modern, and voraciously unkempt,
I waddle into the breeze facing sternward.
The crisp craft of my volition evolves in chunks
as the miles drip by. My nautical excursion is so
limited by the distance inherent in the vastness
of the sea. I want always and only to be near people
but I can't stand them, their voices milky and wan.
If sound had a color, I'd be coated in its thick, resinous pigment.
I could be holding a National Geographic
under my good arm as I coax the breeze into plaintive theme music.
So, chaos is a feeling, it is the most fun I've
had yet. I'm speaking without the aid of autotune,
and then the mist clears.