Something about the best there is
grabs and twists your insides
and you want to call Mai
even where no shadow exists
of what we could call devices;
First, there are those
luxuriating in the idea...
then dream becomes nightmare,
and you wake up with a headache,
only there is that which drives
the idea of the best
which becomes a shame
when you turn and others say,
Then the memory of shoots
Once in Mototi budding, but blooms delaying
until years later, carrying the weight
of the sky, we dreamt of burn-darkened
ends of what could have been blooms....
Something in talking about the best,
when even the worst would detest contests....
So you stand, sit, stand again,
and the laughter you hear
is of hope turned clownish
as where once we sat and told stories
we now roll, like donkeys,
in the ash of insignificance....
but the whistle syou hear,
those are the vestiges....