tired blood

looking back to where history dwells,

to where pleasant dreams are conceived

and domesticated cats long to keep themselves company;

to where everyone is condemned to an equal silence

circumventing their concerns of what actually is;

to where the ultimate decision has been made

and there’s no turning back leaving me to consider

the gathered who'll receive me un-clothed, un-shaven,

un-industrialized and empty-handed.

what's that sound?–– Harpo! is that you?

what's this mist?

will I tumble to where another Hell is Hell

but by another name? –– or

should I gulp a few from the dusty old Geritol bottle,

reconsider my options and order in for Chinese?