on a jet plane
to frolic in Chastain,
long where rich folk
drown their pain.
going awol
at Saturday light,
to do nothing
and do it right,
just a flight and two midnights.
abandoned in mansion,
un-unfinished,
just a man standing
like a stanchion,
lost and found among Atlantans.
I want the traffic
and I want the fog,
who knows,
maybe I will even
go for a jog.
O W. E. B. Du Bois,
find me, listen me,
beseech thee to be done
and just have some wayward fun.
re-vampiring
my processes,
I will shortly obsess
a confession of duress
and just rest my chest.
another litany
has swollen me,
beyond recognition,
beyond belief,
but not beyond repair.