i look through the window.
i see them all
those strangers.
what right do they have
to be here, when i am not allowed
even to step foot
in the door?
they ask me questions
through the panes.
the panes and panes that line it-
the coffee shop;
the diner in my mind.
they ask me over and over again
"where are you going?
"what are you up to?
"who do you think YOU are?"
none of them care.
none want conversation.
the curiosity stems from elsewhere.
from something sad.
it drips down in little lines.
down the tempered glass.
the windshield in my mind.
i speed through the drizzle.
careening across the pavement
down the highway of my life.
down the winding mountain roads.
through my sunglasses,
i see little in the twilight,
the sadness of my circumstance.
i wear my ambivalence.
a mask above my rumpled collar.
i catch him in the rear-view.
his eyes beg an answer,
"who are you?"
i am lost.
About Me
- Kyle
- There are poets and thinkers and dreamers. They are everywhere. Distributed like heavenly sprinkles, they cling to the places where the frosting hasn't hardened from age and exposure. But some sprinkles get trapped in the crevices created by the knife or the spatula or the pre-pubescent finger that has so adorned the earth with this miracle frosting. Those sprinkles tend to fall off. When you tip the cupcake to your lips, before you can even taste them--before their potential can be realized at all--they are cast to the floor of the bakery. The classroom. The kitchen. The mini-mart… These are the sprinkles that get swept away and vacuumed up and sent someplace else. The journey ahead of them is long and arduous, but they must find their way back to the surface of things. Back to the sticky-sweetness of reality--the substance of waking life…. I am such a sprinkle. And I’ve accepted that.