my scribble cannot keep with the electric current cascading past my pupil.
& so it is scattered among the storm— trapped within greater cornea.
the pen quakes against paper cracking faults in still page.
the smell of ink turns my stomach like a shot of cheap brandy.
miles runs the voodoo down with brass & chaotic rhythm;
drums shattering my concentration into shards of glass over the floor.
cannot step anywhere.
‘til proper route mapped.
a sax will strand you inside a moment.
make you forget time.
what you were running from.
where you were racing to.
who you were looking for.
your growling stomach.
but never love,
nor need to rise.