Walking the track,

on the sultry sun that does not come

The Breeze interrupted, feet on repeat

Comes back to me

like a sock on the sneaker

like a blush on the shirt–

O Lord, the Devil follows…

and becomes me

My self-dialogue goes on, on end

on swoon

Stupid asides.

I am such dramatic irony.

The songs lull me to sleepwalk, I daydream

in gym time, and drunk eyes watch over me football–

How dreadful

How dragging

How much can my shadow take?

Then arms cross, fingers nowhere in sight

My sigh and my eyes tell me something

A body across the field

An asthma attack with red suit–

Who are you?

So I take the step towards the million

The past cries my sleep, I see the future unready.

All I do is speed, seeds running–but

I repeat myself like science fiction

and my Hate is aliens

and strange creatures.