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    Magnetic heads scraping against a roll of tape. It's wonderful.
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Am I the only one you told about the pages that you folded the edge?
I reread them again.
Is there time to go outside? I just wanna see the sky one more time.
Chemical lines on high.
Because it's in your head, and it's in mine too.
Because this dust does not make sense, the ghost is painted blue.
The white light is nice, living in digital ice crystal caves
They took me away.
As I unfold this page, the way it was arranged was unclear.
Released into the air.
"You are the mittens on my hands,
keeping me warm, but it's hard to write.
Like a refrain, it sings don't speak."
Am I even making sense?
How should I know what happens in my brain,
What makes me this way?
Do we have time to go outside?
Cause when you think about it, we probably should have died.
So remember next time, keep it in mind!
Because it's in my head, and it's in yours to.
Blue ghost don't take offense, He's got it come too.
It's been spitting cosmic speak for about a week on end.
My radios gone dead.
So I fold up this page.
Maybe I was just too afraid of what it could say.
"You are the wind and the scent of leaves,
keeping me up on summer nights."




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American Haiku Denver, Colorado


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