On the balcony with a bitter tongue and remaining sun, I am rationalizing before my buzz sets in. I stare at the poppies for awhile. * * * * * * * * My thoughts blinked like the yellow lights at six; there were the heavy bills blazing white on a desk, and painful drums mauled my temples. Now, with a white capsule influence, those underfed insecurities suppress, those dogs that once harassed the alleys. Lethargic eyes roll next to loitering clouds. The opulence of these disengaged thoughts; I love everything and marvel at the trees. The clouds seem sick, horizontal, skinny. They do their nightly weakening. The suns light slowly smothers at around eight. And day's white light spills down; my white pupils want their dark veils. White high tapers slowly from the white sheets that silence me.