Pants in the wind and pants on the screen. Only way to train is the number 5 in gold. Your paper is here, in the middle of the letter L. You hassle me, I hassle you, we go our collective separate ways, there is a transient click that happens and happens again. I miss the you of me. I remember the me of you sneaking into you. The when of us has a number of times and means to evanescence, and staccato blossoms bang down on fire-bandaged tings. The ness of whispers washes over alternating memories, a South America of mind. A gale of unconscious fleeing masters castigating gaze of inner eye shadow. Who forgives and who blames? The me of me is all about both categories. Darn and swell are the old whatever. I can’t seem to get behind any of them.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."