This is a portion of part two of a four part poem.

turn back now or else proceed with caution, color coded shards shrouded by urban sprawl. a distress signal, save our ship if you will, strobe lights descending on a crazy tripped-out city. warning to all violators and trespassers, the golden age is upon us, your supreme court decisions have been overturned. i guarantee these psychic vibrations to be entirely universal, dangling from saxophone solos, in ancient gardens obscured by too much punctuation. crackling static radiate your forehead, train wreck of eyelashes and arms folded staring at the shoelaces. compounded by kitchen appliances, seatbacks and traytables in upright and locked position. go on strum your guitar blow your horn, so this is what you were talking about. never believed i’d see past the days of chapped lips, brushing cheeks accented by sound of insects buzzing. tropical hemispheres visit me now pick up on your meaning without speaking. on the brink of spiraling staircases, suffering knuckles and fists in accidental harmony. stuttering inaudible verbiage behind native purgatories, useless spectrum of religious typewriters clinging to your blanket, immersed in the sheets. elaborate circuitry and passing lanes on interstellar highways, left to wonder who really has the right of way.