picking up your fallen feathers

there was a time when you were fallingand came to rest on the messy stringsof your old grey cocoon left rottingin the forest where you forgot you had a childhood.but you ran as soon as you touched the groundso now where are the butterflies dancing around you?and why don't the bushmen call you on your birthday,or send you cards?bushmen love snoopyand you haven't seen a card amongst the bills in so long.you have an itch behind your ear that youwill. not. scratch. in. front. of. Steve.you've scrubbed away your calluses on the smooth black plastic of the escalator rails;you've boozed away your wariness in bars with reputations.the jungle is your emblem but the city holds you trancelikewaving lights that make you stop and stare in the middle of the roadcabbies yelling muddled obscenities but no one else with time for you.can you smell danger any longer?or is there something new in your nostrilsso scorched by trendy sniffs of Starbucks?now you smile and your teeth are straight.passersby can barely see the cracks around your fingers no one wonders when this phase will drop discardedto be ground into magic powder by the many feet of progress.Should I just take out the whole bit about my fixation and just make it about the 2nd person? Written October 8th, 2001 © on Oct 08 2001 09:23 AM PST   0 • 9