by Steven J. Serafiani

Thoughts trample through the cerebral cobblestone like Pamplona,
looking for my lips to charge a bottle of red,
clock shows five, computer shows three,
molecules living in two different residences,
a Missouri ashtray with filtered smoke signals wafting through a decade,
a timeline bursting and lunging through retina shades,
lusting after another Miami night, another paddle digging into the blue of a key,
longing for twigs crackling and brooks bubbling, sole enveloped in Big Sur,
searching synapses for the tires that burned through invisible borders,
flickering images of former lovers, friends and ever changing ceiling textures,
the mantra of the young and mad,
to be a scale of Drake and to find a cape while wrestling Poseidon,
to return and tell the tale of when I became a man,
yet here I sit, the second retreat,
doled out another dull night under Midwestern doldrums,
four and a half miles from my clipped cord and a white coat of arms.