When the silence of my life tickles in darkness delves into my daily routine caught in my melancholy music at times, not exact; then exuberant auto racing playing at times, not exact; (a new poem published or a kick in the ass) kick smacks like tornado alley in the tomato can left over paste of my emotions at times, not exact; I realize the split of legacy, of loyalty on its knees fractured like a comma or sentence fragment, naked like a broken egg between friendship and hatred, I stew like beef then broth simmering sort of liked, sort of hated, not exact.
