Roaming
Watched the humidity asphyxiate the moon, saw its definition offer guns to an insipid apricot monotone. Standing there with skin exposed, I touched my rug-burned knees through tattered jeans, and thought about how I needed something more than this. Something more than crickets choking to their suicide, and hunger tight-roping my muscles into spasms. The boredom from two days without sex, and a hand that didn’t have to find, clever things to do, from a quarrel of time zones that google couldn't logically map abandoned me with the night downtown sang to us from inside. And now all I have is stale jazz, And a butter knife. It seems it will be awhile, waiting for a transmission, out of Prague. -Nathaniel T. Hughes, July 2007