Brackets

It’s like a white out made of television
static I’m talking old school on those
huge SD T.V.s. I am walking through the courtyard
of an old rundown motel out off some freeway
I am trying to escape.
There was a frozen water fall
in my morning’s fading dreams
leading me to think
that all this time has been much more
than what it seems.
I give it all away just like drive through toys,
still bubbled in their plastic,
and I do not know how to ask it
but I can’t find my way
to anything important.
At the end of the school day clubs
all claim their real estate in the evening
wake of empty classrooms, fields,
and commons proper.
Fencing practice on the roof concludes
with a severed ear where sparks
fly off the rapiers and they wear no masks
to cover up their faces.
A long ride home from the tournament
where sore losers wish they were sharper
and the winners all worry that nothing
is as easy the next time.

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