waitin in private lap danced melodies for public transport pick up my day deja vu'd and on repeat, saw ghosts and time fuckin on the walls. colleen's face, as i board, later years, and that same ol' non-gang related handkechief, to hold back black waves.
"next stop 8th street, 8th street is next, (repeat en espanol)"
i choose to stand, and be the movement with bird shit eye glances, some linger. profiled madonna, so beautiful, my little bird and time i drew her racetrack'd turns in the nude, with blackened fingers, and intentional kisses, never finished that picture of her.
"next stop 24th street, 24th street is next (again, espanol)
i see the faces that move by in 40's pictograph form, blur'd, by gears and time schedules, all the people that've come and gone, me leavin. (quintin, willie, paul, will and his family...)
some my only reason to speak at times, verbalization trainin at work and home, deleted movie scenes to profound and even offensive for the all unsatiated public.
who gives a fuck?
not anymore, i've solidified to degrees
"next stop bayfront, e street, bayfront is next" (en espanol yet one more time)
my stop comes with trolly'd jerk and insect legs, turnin from interference, so...i turn up my cd player and i join the clones to walk a lonely path, my path.
i road a trolley once and this is what it gave birth to, so fresh i can smell the people