we stick to 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 ever apologize.
They don’t show weakness. They point it out.
We probably look like fools.
Inspiration is outdated and
nobody feels like caring these days.
A voice from a dark doorway. It asks if we want to have a good time.
We look at each other, two sets of eyes filled with doubt, but
our feet make the decision for us.
DJ Apathy spins warped records at Club Hopeless. There are sold out crowds every Saturday night.
Sunday morning we wait at the bus stop with the others trying to explain away the pain we’ve caused. The damage we’ve done.
When will I learn 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.
Another applauds, thinking he’s caught a rare glimpse of what we’ve been missing.
Those who have temporarily 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 fucking drive it.