always trying to prove something, to neself, to the universe,
to the person down the street
ehh purple hair and fractional tennis *****, then
lead the plastic barriers,
remember the number
ohh saintly hell, I feel like the callous on my feet are even stronger than last month, and this walk is jazzy
so I go about proving the gods, or some diety, that this is, infact, tanglible...artifact to be exact
proving it to the widow who fancies the conversation more than the content,
proving it to pine needles who know they willl fall in two, three days, anyway
prove it to myself, and my toes, and my eyeballs
red flesh and bolstered blood,
can I have a candybar for sixpence from the richardsome magician in the sky?
no, he is occiupid with tobacco candy and the home baseman is comalainging about his peanut pickings
If only I was a kite, then fate would truely be out of my hands, and there wouldn't be any more reason to feel proud,
perhaps tied to a tree for an eternity, perhaps confused bewtee the medeterranean sea and south africa,
who could i be?