summer.

reading kerouac when the birds awoke,
at dawn i lost my mind,
i found america in the early morning,
disturbing, small,
confused me.
i redefinied my name,
with my hands, on wood, paint, paper...
any medium i could come across,

really it took losing myself,
in the heat of early summer,
to find myself in the grain of the wood,
in the paper,

the page always my enemy,
simply alive in my hands,
my mind somewhere out of my skull,
unconsciously working,
with a constant vigor,

the seam undone on my pants,
grew into a longer tear,
and i without a needle was aware,
but i walked down my road,
painfully apathetic,
and aware,
smiling at the dogs, and sun intermittently,
as i remembered home,
as it had been,
as it was,
as i walked.

my mind tries to grip it again,
and it slips out of grasp,
and i'm ok with that,
every syllable resonating in my skull,
because my mind left me to wander.

and i will never ask why.