En media res

Paranoid about a legacy that doesn’t exist and may never. Paranoid about an annotated bibliography with a biography on it. Paranoid about the way the air conditioner has made my nose run in this arid climate. Paranoid about eating key lime pie and not being able to write poetry in lines that make people want to tie a silk-scarf noose around their neck and die happily, complete. Enjambed between perceptions’ dreamscapes that move like cardboard waves on a theater set. Jump. Hurdles. Wake. We shall have a wake. en media res. All I want is a place to wait. And write the lies of a legacy. Sans late.