He looks to reality
Up from ice and pressed bean
the swipe the swipe the swipe
less and less and less
nothing truly there
only a number slowly counting down
from imagination to movement
the slide to the empty well
what is an existence anymore
day day day
earth flat or round
no exploration
all secret artifacts
every bit of life found
•
turn turn turn
brush floss comb
s-l-o-w
down
time
the intravenous suggestion of life
“real” comes down; a leaf
of quiet disposition in October
existence is blood and bread
beyond that,
the stars shine,
maybe.
Little Spud In The Big Apple 