I don’t think anyone contemplates life more than me. There are no answers for my endless list of questions. I check the sky for seasons unannounced. Only to find myself standing stock still in a short pile of leaves. Fall is here but no one has bothered telling the city.
Small apartments with big noises. Streets too wide. Still too many cars. I long for a real conversation. One that hinges on absolutely nothing. Warhol in the shadows. Fela beating a drum somewhere. I am thee. None of them.
There are no road signs. Only cars. All painted black. Headed in the same direction. If only the procession would peer over my tight shoulder. Revealing nothing more than a few arm stretches and a slight smile. I must go my own way.
My skin itches at the thought of knowing that I know nothing. Freeing.
The constant regurgitation of someone else’s thoughts long gone startles me. One reads to fill a space. Another writes because they have nothing to say. A shoe paints in hopes of changing it’s color. If there were really hands on a clock, shouldn’t we be able to reach back and…