There is a shadow of a palm tree falling across my Ferrari,
but I have no Ferrari and the shadow is a street lamp, flickering,
burning out; illuminating a crackhead smoking a cigarette.
Or is it a blunt?
And what if I told you that I never want tonight to end?
Because if tomorrow began and you were not in it,
I might just decide to sleep in and not wait for
street lamps to do their 2-bit impressions of the sun.
I love a good run-on sentence… especially
when you’re lacking for something succinct.
The danger of putting yourself out there is once you’re out there,
you need somebody to throw a life preserver to bring you back.
Or maybe it’s not that, but just that once you’re out there, you
start to feel every bit of your skin stick to you and form a shape
that is foreign to how you feel inside, the silhouette of your soul.
And my soul is a Ferrari.
Hear it rev. Hear it roar. Hear me come around the corner
at 110 Kilometers an hour. Is that fast? Maybe 150 kilometers.
Maybe like light speed, I’ll be there. In Europe or North America,
I’ll be signaling for you. Pull me over. Arrest me. Tell me I’m wrong.
Maybe 200 kilometers an hour, I’m yours.
If you want to be scared for the future of humanity, just think about
how there are directions on bottles of soap.
I go out, hungry, alone, itching to blend in.
There is a chalkboard with the fish of the day. A lady on the phone
won’t look up. A list of names in front of her. Music plays overhead
that nobody in the restaurant knows who chooses it. And outside
are other people waiting, watching the diners eat their food. Everything
that is happening in this moment is made up, because I made it up.
Because life only exists if I make it up. Finally the lady puts down the phone
and looks at me, but does not smile, because I do not make her smile.
I could order Postmates instead.
I am home again.
I look out the window at the streetlamp.
The crackhead has gone somewhere.
My Ferrari is now a dog.