Hellucinations

"The world around's on fire and here am I

...writing this poem,"

Said, who?

From where?

----a sound all in my head,

and now charring the paper---

maybe it is the I who is on fire...

the World, in no apparent hurry,

its grief played out as reruns on repeat,

over and over, over decades, and centuries

the soap opera saga oozes, and no account

of tears washes it clear, nor quenches

flame and heat---

---the head spins

---the heart bleeds

---hands hold out helplessly

in rotational feats---

effete

couched aside churlish hi resolution screens

of channels that do not change on pressing

and stations that depart, Cerberus

without you, without me,

hellish Greyhounds,

of reality