Cutting thin holes in the streets. Cutting them thick, thin in the middle of a day dismantling calm in the summer sun. America is tattered as the flag stained with oil derricked from revolution. The trucks have tankers of so many liquids far and wide, on my bicycle there is nowhere to ride.

Undaunted by the helicopters, police sirens, & all of the toxins, I breathe them in heartily. Death sticks with me like the keys on my keychain. I am the space between my shadow. There is a war going on over the radio. I confuse the words with music and discern their alabaster like qualities through a cars window. ‘Russian and Syrian armies are preparing for an offensive in what some say could be the last battle of the Syrian War.’ Museums of imagination; whatever number of senseless murders that can satisfy occupations, do not console my brethren.

It is with obsession, a delicate claim of virtual personification of what I can achieve to lead anywhere but here. I am human. I can do anything at all, even make poetry of the disharmony of nature. There is no one who can cross the line that dares not return. Lies, lies senseless alibis swallowed whole by the spaces between the shadow. They dare not return.