so close to nowhere

hovering
at the cusp
but
of what?
a sense of
possibility
tantalizing
nearly
palpable.
in a constant
state of
creation,
never slowing
never ceasing
an endless
stream of
scenes
strung together
with
rusted hooks.
one of them
has to
find purchase.
right?
an infinite
loopdeloop
of submission
rejection
rinse and
repeat
all in the hope
scattered
shattered
swept beneath
appliances
someone
somewhere
gets it.
occasionally
the cusp
is orgasmic.
usually
it is just
deflation.
the sense of
hovering
induces
euphoric
nausea.
and i sit here
sipping coffee
listening
to the rain
beat against
the cars outside
much like
my heart
against
my ribcage,
wondering when
it is time
to stop
chasing a dream
that is really
a projection
of insanity.
they arbitrarily
decided
ten thousand hours
makes you
a master
at nigh
five thousand
pedantic odes,
i believe
they were just
being polite.
dangling a
carrot
from an
everexpanding
stick.

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