Black rooster

 I was pulled away in a cart.
Nearing the top of winara hill.
I found myself drifting over the grass.
Being followed by curious black rooster.

Over an ocean of grass below.
And a sky dangerously blue and cloudless.
The only moving thing beside myself and my haycart,
was this black rooster.

It kept up with the cart.
It could have easily been the seed head on the hay.
But the animal wasn't pecking
It just kept walking toward me.

Keeping up with the pace of the donkey.
It's feathers were noble.
It's dimensions were regal.
I kept my eyes on that rooster.

Did it somehow belong to me?
What power did it represent?

Recording my voice in the rain

I walked through their etiquette corridor.
breaking the knees of the wardens.
Their well kept perfect looking women.
Their respectable conforming men.

Not one of them helped me.
They didn't want my words or stories.
I needed to exit the insane asylum.
So I took the back window and jumped four meters into the heavy rain.

Alone I walked through small houses of the nearby neighborhood.
Finding myself in water up to my knees.
Angry has beens leaned out of their windows.
Throwing casette tapes at me and telling me to record the rain.

I looked down into the clear water that was slowly rising.
I could see my infancy, the first years of myself.
The rain didn't stop so I took out a tape recorder.
Threw in an unmarked casette and listened to my own voice playing back from the future. 

The becoming of a rogue

 I had to make my own way.
Never fitting in.
I argued with the way they did things.
I was told to learn their ways.

I watched as I was put last in every scenario.
I was just given scraps at every feast.
So I took my own personal license.
And became the rogue you see.

I had to fight my way out alone.
Break their rules and leave their tables.
There was no place for me there.
I made my way through the wrecks and junkyards.

Through the odd jobs and invisible neighborhoods.
My words were all I had.
Beggers can't be choosers, father said.
But I became both.

There's no such thing as a free lunch, my mother said.
But I ate without paying on countless days.

Slick freeways

The suave bus ride shot through the city of want.

What do you want the sign said.
The silver bus hovered off the road like dragonfly.
the pollution haze dressed the city n a see through skirt.

The city humms but never speaks.
Pedestrians stay from the highways.
Keeping all of their jealousy and bustle.
Inside the overcrowded enclaves.

The freeway feels like a sweet elegant layer of mist.
But it is only a toxic dust a few feet off the tarmac.
The energy flies over the city and the bus itself soaks it in.
Boosts along at a happy speed...

Speed and aluminium.
A new century.
A new millenium,
commuting no questions.

Tom swatted mosquitoes

 I met Tom Cruise on a bus to carwash city.
He swatted near my neck on the bus.
There were mosquitoes around me.
Of course they weren't around him.

The novelty of taking a bus for him must have been sonething.
But he didn't seem to care one way or another.
I said to him- why did you save me from those mosquitoes?
And he just looked at me as if he was reading for me some sort of film.

I said to him- I've always thought you were a great actor.
-But sometimes I've mocked you for your stature.
-What a thing to do right?
And he just kept looking at me and finally said- it's fine.

On his face he really didn't seem to care.
He was going to do a new film with Putin.
Tom would play Zelensky.

Maurice chef

 The big kitchen bench at the seaside.
Salty and just a slight tad humid.
Piles of vegetables on top, 
Pots on open flame.

His expression was one of unconcern.
He picks a dangling knife off a rope and starts chopping.
Again and again the at sound plop plop plop...
Where did all the food come from?

Noone was asking. 
The fish was obviously from the sea.
But the rest of the vegetables were a mystery.
In some cultures food is the only luxury.

The sound of the tide was loud outside.
The ocean speaking almost giving tips on the dish they were preparing.

Skaters of failure

 They sat glued to the t.v.
Four of the best skaters in the world.
They loved the cartoon and gave themselves nicknames.
Then they went out to field of wheat.

Ricky rode over the wheat field with his skateboard.
Flattening a line through the crop nicely.
To the applause of the other three.
No farmer to get angry.

Their cartoon like minds
Spinning out of control
For they didn't seek flat surfaces
But uneven or dense surfaces where the wheels would get stuck.