There is fun no
more in chasing believers of a flat in world in
circles. A  dry preacher, evoking hell.  
This journey always started with others
and ends with others wise ghosts watching
hoping to be seen as a ghost to have made
a footprint on the most trodden path.
Life without fear of it.
A magician with the knowledge
of an ace always able to come up
next yet I still bust.

The white marble embraces me,
the old white marble tries to embrace me.
Only seaweed floats.
A City of canyons built for climbers.
The fish saw death yet death waited off the hook
Better odds on the hook.
Now she’s
given her coin and
crossed the river
and I sit at the shore
confused at why
I suddenly care.

Nice suit; bad shoes; never shows up on time,
Weird hat, but dashing socks; did he spend any time?
His buttons are yellow, and his glasses are green; nothing really seems to match,
No one knew why they kept staring but my god this guy was a catch.
Finally a lady, finest in the land, sat next to him right on the couch,
She asked him why he stood out so much and he said "It's cause I'm the Best Worst Dressed Man in the house."

Disoriented faces timelapse by as I trudge my way to school.
The old women over there carrying a Fairway bag
Her grandchildren are visiting her for the weekend.
The women  attempting to refrain a smile
Her boyfriend is going to propose tonight.
The young man carrying a briefcase and rapidly walking
He is on his way to his first day at work.
The little boy carrying a backpack that is larger than himself
His mom packed him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
A million faces timelapse by.
I wonder what my story looks like to the grandma, the women, the boy, the man.

Let the stories you told yourself as a child,
the ones where you were the hero,
Deform
Like your pubescent body before the mirror
into stories where
you are the one who needs to be saved and
the only thing that really matters is
the color of your dress.

Johnny Cash was a regular old man who liked his porridge just right,
He woke in the morning and went to work and then he slept at night.
No one knew who he really was or how he made his wealth,
He knew he was rich and loved his money and made it all with no help.
When his son asked how he made his money he plain and simply just said,
If you want to live like Johnny Cash you have to know how to hide from the feds.

The hourglass sits on my desk.
I glare into the fragile globe.  My 4-year-old self builds a giant sandcastle as the bright sun glimmers on the hot sand below my feet.  I blink.  I pause and see how much sand has fell.  As the sand falls it piles onto itself one grain at a time.  What is it building now? Is the sand building or letting go?