so what, she wants to try to be objective?


hurled insults, but rooted in

knowing

your knowing is rooted in

chaos

Subjectivity? Objectivity?

Fine, just fine

sit at the table over a glass of wine

and sip, sip, know

knowledge, in little droplets

drips off the balcony

oh, I guess that was that

Black and gray *** leaf tube socks
are stretched up to his kneecaps.
They cover the rugged
saw-like shin bones that nustle themselves underneath a layer of soft, pale skin.

Beige khaki shorts, tethered and worn.
A rip in the left pocket, a hole in the back;
Cigarrettes and a *****, empty, leather wallet reside in the other two.

A hint of a minty, floral perfume, emanating from the cotton fibers of his tattered, black, t-shirt, remind him of the long, arduous night that had past.

Clouded and confused, liqour infested, and hardly satisfied. He stumbles through the morning dew covered grass, etching a new path home.

He feels no regret, no remorse. Only an uninhabited, nugatory self.

There is nothing but me
And this stoplight at the end of the universe,
Green, yellow, red
Then green again.

Independent of judgement,
From all who look on.
Their opinions don't matter,
I walk along.
There are others beside me,
Their choices their own,
But save for this stoplight,
I walk alone.

Just a blank slate
Free from doubt,
free from fear,
It's just me
and this stoplight here.