Do Not Feed The Pigeons

Bulbous vein-ridden Portnoy Picasso pastiche, sitting over there on the train. Next to the drooling trancer falling asleep. How did you find the world when you woke up? Sneakers are valued above health. Haves and have-nots. Thinks and think- nots. We depreciate as soon as we drive off the lot of our mother’s womb. Never to return. Moving ever forward, and continually backward. Waiting takes up a lot of it. Sleeping takes up a lot of it. Despondent uncertainty takes up a lot of it. Good things are sparse and seem better anticipated than actual. But we all do it. We all groove to the tomb. Some fast, some slow. Reason and no reason. Scared as fuck. Moments, silent reflective moments where we find a communion in microscopic universal magnetic moments. The marrow of living exists in the space time continuum shared between strangers becoming friends. Shouting into an apathetic abyss. Wanting to leave evidence of existence. No God. No ghosts. Just present moments unfolding ever forward. Continually backward.Passing it on. Passing on.