I am the one,
pacing through cigarette smoke
passing crowds, head down
eyes heavy, body weak.
I am the escapist,
barely seen in dark alleys-
a quiet street,
and the night is clear.
I am the ghost in the distance,
on top of hills,
quiet neighborhoods,
affected, hidden..

I see your bodies,
buried in leather
bullet-proof,
hiding never-souls.
I am the distant,
I am the noise.
I am the rustle in the bushes.
I am the target of death-squads.
I am the undercut surprising.
I am the failed, the weak, the cheap.
I breathe through my nose a dirty air,
and from my mouth,
salacious gestures.
The art is now dead,
the spirit all but gone.
We are the generation,
hearts torn out and spit upon..

I am the non-political,
the leech, the apathetic.
I am the one who buries himself.
I am contemptuous of complacency.
I am hung with no audience,
no cackles, no adoration.
the poetry now exists
between blades of grass
unnoticed, laid upon.
I slip through pinholes,
vacuous and black
disintegrated, non-matter.
There is no rhetoric,
which I may conjure to explain..

my platform is sinking, broken.
I will die alone,
like the ones that never existed.
I am an eyesight,
a laser beam.
I am polluted with the presence of my neighbor.
I am an edible rose, eaten.
I am broken plastic,
silicon on forgotten asphalt.
I project to the cosmos,
a sound, an image dispersed,
thinly, widely absorbed
into eternal, spontaneous gravity.
My pages are the embers that envelop your fingerprints.
I sand the crests down to their troughs.
I am the illiterate reading a newspaper;
the incontinent, needlessly whirled.
I turn knobs, become offended at myself.
I close books quietly, brush them,
betray the words..

I am never, ever again.