Johnny had an iPod 6ptx

In Minnesota he lost IT

I mean he lost his mind

All the Connectors and

Contacts fell out till

He was Blind

Donald Trump

Mother Teresa

Vanna White

He cussed

Is this what success is

Into the umpteenth Century?

Talking to the Empty

Screen to scream

Johnny had a Shot

Actually he had a Lot

He had a Winchester

He had Honey Bourbon

He had a one in a million

Hole in one

In Minnesota

He lost IT

I mean he lost his power

All the giga bytes in the data wiped

Verizon said,

No

No bars on his cell yet

No county penitentiary

No booze, off Broadway

He'd get his wagon on

Overdrive

AA

AAA and

Ay! ay! ay! ay!

Wait a minute

Johnny'd rather have the Rolly

But he still has a Timex

And he could do it,

Right.

I don't know, what is it makes me dwell on November

Almost all the year a different kind of new, to us

10 months gulped, and this 11th emits a long cold yawn

A mist or fog that sits, pneumatically upon the lung

of Mother Nature, for those not perpetually on vacay

I look at the calendar, ah yes... it's All Souls Day.

but here I am, in another scheme

thought I'd put the bod to rest,

yet here I am, someone else

different pains, and feeling same,

situations altered, but reality remains

I still see, these peripheries of me

foreign hands, torso holding, legs

these steps, never quite mine,

that animate... a semblance of Life

What makes the patch work, is the fabric and the stitch

The wrong fabric with the wrong stitch, and the patch will rip

and damage the specially formed piece, and article

The wrong stitch to the right fabric, and it won't stay

like it should, needing frequent needling back to...

The right stitch to the wrong fabric leaves slash marks

and a gaping hole, where the fitting should have been

unlike the right fabric, with the right stitch

These will outlast your garment.

We're having fog up here as well

Yep. Persistent fog. It dampens, past

the skin, perspiration, permeates the brain

We forget things too, time, we waste aways

but what am I saying? pls forgive me, I get it

in Limbo these things aren't the issue...

turbulence is bitter, squash

the queasiness, a stomach feels

on crushing the house fly

and seeing yourself, through

compound eyes, fleeting calm

all business like, of daily grind

discomfort not yet knowing,

the backwards, taking off

We are, everchanging

like the floater views the landscape

rolling on, in reverse, to the eye

an optical illusion.

Yet we are, paused, in sun, rain or fog

incrementally moved, even at stoplight

slipping backwards, as the adjacent trucker

pulls our impatience, by the collar,

an illusion so real, it breaks the heart

The way we are, stuck in the traffic of the stars.