Everything seems to be happening out there . . . not in here . . .
the life of your interior monologue
sucked dry by the black leather overly-zippered motorcycle jackets
parading the catwalk . . . the pretend-pudding pop-up
all augmentation . . . the recipe shouting out ingredients . . .
Trying to please uniformed players . . .
free agents force-fed the how-to manual
while side-stepping backstory politics (Unfair?) . . .
You were back-and-forth for a while . . .
juggling schedules with having-to-be-there-then . . .
tripping over the dynamics of being in-the-moment
while regressing to the convenience of taking dictation
with rubberized accoutrements . . .
finally escaping to the Cape for what some would consider
a ploy . . . but the logjam was such that
the entries were botched . . . and first-responders were on break . . .
You could have at least called it in
but that would have in effect amounted to an admission of something
as the sloop slips through the harbor . . .
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| Serkan Alpsar |