The state I'm in, I'm no good to my medication. Suspended in perma-bobble on the dashboard, traditional Hawaiian garb. I closely brush with a fate I Googled. Nine stringy pie plates skipping on possible's lake. Something that doesn't sit right is my M.O. I stir my drink & the ice wags loyally. This isn't a franchise of the stress hormone cortisol. It's a promise Ferris wheeled by social media. Not going anywhere you couldn't guess, the fear of. I'm stuck in the synapse of my ways, like a crowd-lancing glimpse. The shutting-off TV folds flash like a napkin in its lap. Meditative breath spread- eagled into lungs. Sometimes, doing good by yourself entails a bum deal. A shoal of possible side effects, show of hands from showstoppers. My pharmacist sends me a message, "what's up," on Facebook. I rest my elbows on a burning table. Stir drinks a stone skips across. Gone unexplainable somewhere in an hourly luxury sedan, I kiss an arm with a mean right hook. I learn the hard way if at all possible. You can't divine purpose from a commercial-broken surface, but you can steal away to where hibiscus repeats. When I wrote sunset I meant to write subset. I'm being impolite, but I'm alone. My feet are up on the table up in flames. The excited membrane leaks with spray tan. & I have my doubts about what happens in this shirt's cotton. Breadcrumbs like pageant contestants line behind a curtain. Hearing my name in the crowd I don't turn.