There are certain people
I don’t want to see
they are always catching me, like a social sport
I am caught-up in traffic, before the work day
I am caught-up in their tedious affairs
buried by my own business—
an archeological dig inside my truck
layers of grocery bags, and lost lunches that begin to smell
I socialize with strangers—they aren’t very strange
it’s my lack of interest, but they all seem the same.
I fantasize about starting fires, and giving cars, something to really complain about
Molotov Cocktails for Happy Hour
and my Machine-gun laughter—as I abandon my vehicle
running down the center lane of traffic—like a drunk proving his sobriety
details close in, like a collage of lost hopes
like a kaleidoscope, of blurry dreams
causing my headache to spin—my star-struck visions of madness.
If losing touch with reality is comforting
the couch-potato cowboy rides the open-ranges in his living room
with no enemy to kill, but himself.
He needs to cut barbwire and break the law
because the open ranges are closed.
He is defined by petty society
without his permission
and he seeks his own definition
but the world won’t read him
and he is reading the same story
looking for something stranger