at rush hour.                                                awake.

            in my pocket watch. i hide

for their thoughts and mine collide.

i burrow and migrate to the poles

where the polars play, in the pitiful precipitation 

when winter meets summer

where a cold can fold into a fever


washy whirlwinds in my mind

a spicy tingling down.                rigidly

and personally

to fight me would be your wish.

besides the tuna.

                 on a roundhouse dish.