Literary Strangeness

It's a turpitude of a different color
One hundred miles of solitude
In every direction
And as with all absolute isolation
Self-directed

An unwillingness 
Like a stay at home dad
With a comma in the wrong place
In his title 

A fast lunch made slow 
By the blues remix
Carrying pasta from fresh 
To the daily digest

Write a record
Of this red circle
Stopping before you touch
That square 

The nearby is as mythical
As the me
If I'm paying attention
To more than old old text