there's shag carpet beneath my feet
the color of kentucky hay.
shifting my navy vans makes me think of
where i've been and
where i'm now.
an old godard film plays on silent to my right and left,
the subtitles yellow as a
chain smoker’s fingernail.
the avant-garde art sneers at
my pathetic, amateur endeavors.
it feels like a cave in here.
cold and dark.
moist with eager hopes
and common dreams.
i'm sticky with sweat.
not from nerves;
fear said it's sweet fair well long months ago.
experience told my nerves to fuck off and
i haven't seen them since.
no, i sweat because my parking meter hides from sight
and it beeps in my brain.
the little red light haunts my imagination
and my 7th sense tells me
this won't end well.
not well indeed.
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