Things are changing.


X is flourishing like an aroused blossom on moist rust.

Y is pecking on the cover of airtight daydreams with heaving busts.

Z  is pursuing refugee mermaids to gratify his wanton lust.


Everyone is happy. Moving.



like the rotator blades seething on helicopter heads

and old-fashioned windmill churning on earth edges.


Everyone is running. Chasing.


But I am steady like a still clock thrust in time conundrum

stuck with a sticky glue on concrete drool

stagnant like a still eel in a revolving whirlpool.


I am jealous. I want to tilt, to the sunshine

gravitate towards factory made castles, in bowline.

Dislocate. Relocate.

It doesn’t matter.


I just want to budge-

evanesce stickums without smudge.


Shift. Yield.

Preferably to top.