BREATHE IN
Outside
we stick to the rundown streets to sift through the mud, grime, silt, and shit. We set up traps with the intention of snaring Inspiration. It’s been a long time since anyone around here has seen her.
Inspiration is a bitch, the kids smoking Moxie on the corner call.
Three hits and they think they’re who they’re meant to be.
They blow smoke, and criticize, and point fingers, and watch others, and say whatever they think, and they never, not ever, apologize.
They don’t show weakness. They point it out.
We probably look like fools.
Inspiration is outdated.
Nobody feels like caring these days.
Inside
DJ Apathy spins warped records at Club Hopeless. There’re sold out crowds every Saturday.
Sunday morning we wait at the bus stop trying to explain away the pain. The damage.
I learned to stop listening and just accept what I am.
One day, that bus is gonna be a chariot and take us far away from here, someone says.
One scoffs.
Another applauds, thinking he’s caught a rare glimpse of Inspiration incarnate.
Those who have adopted a straight face know he’s still just high from last night.
What I keep preserved:
I’ve never ridden in a chariot and I never would.
Even if they let me drive it.
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