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?