30

September, 2009

spit in the air
drew a line in the dirt----

but wait, I'm in Pennsylvania,
why am I so scared I
left NYC... lights,
heat, people, like a cultural
zoo; manic depressive I
couldn't even go outside:
Spit in a can, kick a sock
on the rug.

But I still feel like that even
though there are trees here,
miles of color, and the people
that are dirty just like
diggin through the guts of cars
and shootin woodland creatures.
That takes patience, right? 7PM,
beer, lift up the hood of my
'stang dig in, that's calming man.
Spit in a bottle wipe
some grease on my pants.

But theres something about that,
those engines that
takes me back, downtown to
people digging through garbage
guts the stuff the people inside
didn't want. I remember riding by
one of those bottle return machines
and seeing packs of people like extras
from a Romero film:

there's something haunting
I never saw in all that digging and
scraping. Half my world uses
touch screens and I gotta deal
with people getting stuff under
their fingernails?

But I'm back, I should be fine,
and I go outside now, so there's safety
in my trees. Still, though,
I feel that fear,
swing a club, call a friend, love
a girl, whistle a tune-- I'm terrifed
because I can't ignore how
miserable everyone is.