I'm taking a trip to Backache City,
its marquee juxtaposed in green and gold,
against the arid backdrop of gritty
grains of sand, and grains of thought manifold:
The former fly endless in the wind, sun,
but the latter dissolve in the deep glow
of the inexorably live neon,
flashing hair, waves, movement — "8 hr show":
My dreams are dissolute, but they are dreams;
I envision for a reason so true,
that, ensnared in a vista between seams,
I fix the leaning contours of the view:
That is, I'm in and out of reason/rhyme;
I can't sit up but, hey, I've got the time.
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