Abandoned ruins appropriated as valuable, no one asks why they were abandoned in the first place. Typographic diarrhea, shallowly swooned over. Overused, under-thought, in-cohesive spew masquerading as appreciable underneath a king’s cloak of fog and smoke.

The same people evangelizing detoxification, living in asbestos lined buildings built on top of broken bottles and cigarette butts.

It seems something is wrong, practicing yoga in a town with no trees.

Loglo selfishly employed, naively sold as a mutual benefit, warnings unheard or unheeded.

Food and drink are the fun, rather than the company they used to require, but even still, few know how to cook and fewer know how to brew or barrel.

A poem reflects my subconscious, “I’m fooling myself” living in this place, but I love my family and won’t go far from them; bolstered with the convenience – or perhaps excuse – of work, I continue.