Untitled

You start out
you think "entranced"
but really it's just the warm haze
"stoned"

hands down
nothing done
how much undone?
for now it's lost in the
faint aroma
of the recent past

sure, I was out here first
and I'm still out here when
most others have flown to a
job a wife a home

it used to mean something to be an individual
but now it just seems cliche
standing out here in the wind
all alone in my old torn coat

What I'm doing
is all my own
hands made of others
but moving in ways I dictate

swashes of paint
wrist tics of graphite
rolling gel of ballpoints
fat dumb markers

it's like I'm the skiff
suddenly and subtly
coming untied mid-jaunt back
to base camp

rolling in a natural and seemingly
random direction
skating over and across the ticking
mosquito kissed blackness of water

released and unnoticed