seemingly, substance looks noble—
i’m in this tin on many hands, no ownership.
lent from the source, it’s beyond evanescent.
quiet and cold, my head spurns community.
it’s a suffering without true blood, deep and deeper.
these feet are not on the road, slack and confined—
outside are altered frequencies, they kill the hope.
nonetheless, black and white movies confounded time.
i am subjecting colored promises from the book.
cannot lose, this war has casualties.
these bullets have ricocheted—
grief is gripping, not to me, not to me.
2011
chester maynes 
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