Again I fall to tinkering,
A floating, timeless, searing kind of place,
So heady elevated over all my sweet machines,
Disbodied deep in vast semantic space.

Within the trenches of my room,
The war mundane drags stubbornly,
"With this fine play we take the flank,
Clear every violent box and plank,
The floor, its ours! So clear and free..."
But merely they have taken to a deskspace-loom.

Adventures in some varied worlds,
From simulacrum to a bustling court,
Toying with immersion 'til the jig is up,
Instead the goofy world just played for laughs.

Hood up in the rain,
Seasoned first with mist,
Then drenched again with longer drips,
And I'm stepping to and fro on glistening grass,
And trying not to skid too fast,
But planting feet and firming arms,
To hit the ball to my own tune,
I pass it in the pouring rain.