Xlate
Xlate
i.
Motel blues. Familiars
lurk in the shifty
shade
where continuums intersect,
albeit none we recognize.
Haze in the nooks.
Corner of the eye,
of the room. Forty-five
sunk in the pillow.
Weather outside--
but not
my weather.
Waveform collapse
at the edge of perception,
phosphorescing, fading.
Fingertips tingling.
Television leaking.
We dig this dislocation,
earthman
jargon.
Igor, elemental spirit,
invests coke machine.
Whose airport is this?