what where how when

and WHAT is the proper response when
you awake to find yourself pocked with fishhooks
a puppet on bundled strands of vinyl?

and WHERE do you aim your venom when
you recover to find kites tethered to helm warring with anchors entrenched
a rag-doll kicked and torn by the current?

and HOW will you cry for help when
you surface to find a liquid sky and insubstantial earth
a fish on the carpet, wide-eyed and gulping in sight of the tank?


WHEN did life become a gaggle of peripherally related episodes taken in like a sitcom marathon on late night cable by a bleary mind’s eye that would just as soon watch a marathon of peripherally related episodes of flat idiosyncratic punch-line salon models than be forced to continue consuming the even-flatter banality of my so called life?

to be, to truly be... or not?
that is, in fact, the question.