"call me on my cell phone 'cause I'm gonna be on the roof"
"haha okay, dad."
this is your life, no regrets
"...maybe he just can't help himself"
amidst gusto-winded weekdays, merriment formed at your core
with the pride-less, uncontrollable mannerisms
of bladders amoung a free-falling men
under frantic flails of limbs
my body hurling downward
the future below, facial expression:
brought to you
by a bird's-eye view of an entire story that's
laced with bull****.
somebody is there, occupying the vacancies between your tepid breaths of smoke.
for your breaths, it's me.
and right before my dead-weight yields
an unappreciated landing
atop rows of teeth, picket fences, and
legitimate free food
i'm playing the part of happiness,
and that is when,
in mid fall, and no matter your species,
you can fly
Leaves reflected the reds and yellows of neons and traffic lights while they plummeted upon hooded craniums.
In nearby blocks, business suites smoked and sped-walked through half-hour breaks. Ties waved at everyone from behind jumbles of tense shoulders, arms, hands, and fingers who didn't have the time to do so themselves. Through blood stains and fecal smells, he was a coyote or a wild dingo, applying for a job. Nobody knows where the want to place oneself under the tendencies of a land where 100 miles are required per minute comes from in an ex-mental patient, homeless, music man.
Still, his whispering wasn't faint when he stopped to name a dog.
A vivacious proclamation unburied itself: "Pookie, you've gotta start somewhere."
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