a friend said to me over a phone conversation
that boy, can i pick em
and i had to tell him that i never pick em
they tend to pick me
and i sit and fall prey to the trappings
of being pursued
while my sound mind leaves all logic and law behind
and peruses the vast halls of a fantasy land
a place that never existed in the first place
and it dances in those chocolate streams
and smells the heavens flowers
and kicks the caramel leaves
and plays with all the imaginary woodland creatures
until the pursuant decides that she no longer has any purpose for the pursued
and the doors close to that magical land inhabited by
narnia creatures and disney songs
and life goes back to its more pedestrian setting
of dog hair woven into the fibers of the carpet
and fingers raised in an expletive manner towards a choice of transportation
of cold winter whipping winds tossing broken leaves into my face
of mans selfish ways collectively burdening the soil
on which the humble still crawl
and no matter how it is that you may look at it
its understood that this is the life that you have chosen
and its up to me
and you
to change it if we want
or we can sit in these chairs that our asses covet right now
and continue to bitch about the same damn things we always do.



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