faces grin from too much slim
& I try & I try
to stick tyres to bitumen
imaginary angels

float & judge & claim
to save but sell
seminars & books & arrive
in inexplicable palaces

where there's no chance
of access. the bishop spews fiction
Buddha knows
as I scratch & ink & I can't even

think he cares for desperate
shoes get the blues
& can't touch the ground
trying to fly

they all wonder why
these eyes are so distant
focused on
lost metropolis souls

screen dwellers
avoiding a sky full of ghosts
sages tell us
their truths

to take or leave & I
bite their fruit & swallow
it whole. spit out the
essence. where the juice

lies are real. nobody feels
how rubber treads without contact
how shoes last longer
how we stick to a grounding

tilling of dirt
plants sprout
flowers grow food
these muddy boots