Just show me this street where I'm standing, please, Life.
Just show me this street - which never tires of itself -
Show me this street
novel, without a single atom taken for granted.
Here folks come at intervals
passersby
bystanders -
always regulars arriving
always arrival
always experience & rarely recognition.
Trajectories disguised as people pass
waiting for something to shine -an argument, a bauble, a curse word, or a fat-ass-
but shining is a shallow game played by disco-balls and Maseratis.
This street, however, humbly bursts with the spontaneous impulse of being, everyday.
Would that I could set aside the self and learn to too.
"Today I'm a vantage without a point" I demand - but I'm just pretending.
Trying this hard to see my nose leaves me with a headache, and
ultimately I know I'm trapped in my skull -
But the streets don't mourn like people or elephants, instead,
they sing that unhurried tune that my mind is too fast to process.
And its a shame I've stopped here, only to find that my mind keeps careening -
And I am all but given up on learning the language of learning the language of the street, when
suddenly,
there he is,
and his eyes - a human being moving among vectors -all magnitude and no direction-
somewhere come, somewhere going, and yet, perfectly here
Smiling his poem right at me.
And in a moment he'll be swallowed up by the clock that says that tomorrow is always on its way,
and just as it is today, the next day is bound to be stardust arranged, particularly sexy with subtle significance, always waiting,
but not weary.
Suffice it to say, today I saw you
and you saw me.
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