Chalk outlines dot the sides of rusted railway cars

I see the scientists painting random numbers all over parched parking lots

Trees in the meadows look like lampposts along the sidewalks of some prefabricated America

A strand of her hair like a ballet buffeted and burrowing through the breeze

We will all get dressed in our Sunday best speaking only in quotes of dimestore philosophers

(I hate being in the sun)

I try to lasso the force of my anger and strain through the sanity which I am certain must lie underneath

Every moment driven by the backbeat of my clouded consciousness while the naked reclining figure of my awareness reaches for the last slice of the perforated pie of past perceptions

I run my fingers along the golden strands of grass sprouting from the blue marsh, listening for the sounds of yesterday to impart some wisdom, long sought, but in the silent stillness of perfect beauty the answer is quite obvious

Do I only exist in the lines of some song: the eyes of a long lost acquaintance, or the unceasing prattle of my fearful thoughts

(I hate being in the rain)

We’ve been collecting these mellifluous moments in a keepsake container contrived of caustic self centered callousness (we call) existence

I’ve been studying your image painted on the glass canvass of the coolers standing along the gallery of the seven eleven and noticed the splendor of our common sameness

I’ve been caught captured by the notion- no the belief, that freedom lie in the formation of a musical conglomeration- the feel of a cowhide sphere grasped between my fingers-collecting compensation for management and advocacy of other’s lives- the heated glass embracing the sensuous smoke saturating my subconscious state- only to always hear the continuous clanging of cast iron cell doors closing in on me

So what is left?

(I hate being in the wind)

What is left in this sad soliloquy I once called me

Nothing I said

Nothing at all and turned away dejectedly from all that ever was and could ever be and felt at once the form of a key pressed gently into the palm of my hand

What is there to understand?

(I hate being here with me)


“… so play the game existence to the end… of the beginning, of the beginning”
                                                                             -  John Lennon and Paul McCartney 1966