Losing it in Moscow

And patterns of rushing blood to steaming cheeks and choking swallows of shame follow me softly in ghostly blue streets and through the corridors.

And the bus jerks my hand, but I refuse to look at Rainbow Moscow and wonder about the colors painted against the slick pomade black hearts (and can I really buy a dagger?).

And yellow strips under Romanian scarves sewn with Bulgarian roses. To always be asking "What Have I Done?" (King Triton!) is to forever be on the run.

An era has ended and just in time too. Things were starting to melt into air and I was beginning to spill through my shirt and let the filthy water from the fountain fill my mouth and expose the foundation...

And I am terribly, terribly sorry about everything. I AM! But apologies fall on burned retinas with bursts of sarcasm spiked milk and marked voids and I wonder if five weeks is the longest that I can hold out without showing it... I'll start timing maybe, and entertain myself with "natural law."

And I don't want to look out the window anymore... But with windows, really, I always knew that I was never looking out, but always looking in, surrounded by the infinite white spaces of truth and envying the safety of the fire mantle.