Scratching at the Pavement: Waking, buzzing normalcy disrupts my slumber like a million wake up calls. No rest for the potentially wicked or potentially mundane. I lay alive in flesh housed walls. Another day, dollar, and dubious wonder as I prepare to spend another life time scratching at the pavement.
My facial features are not my own, as though cut and fashioned from some different mold. A close blade shave is the price you pay for being born outside the fold. Slice your face to become decent, lathered body - clean to keep it, hair pomped up so all can see it, and play dress up success - so they think you mean it.
From motor pride to MBTA control I walk on commuter holy land complete with wailing rails and Jehovah’s witnesses to complete the divine spite of the stations of the train.
Jesus may have been a savior but he worked for a living too. But saviortism has no place here on the long train track to hell... So we continue to wait - grieving countless indulgent payments as I gear up to continue scratching
at the pavement while pillars of cement and piles of sand soak in droplets from the sky.
All that’s left is the moment, outside of that is all.
Today flows water from both the sky and eyes as I slog through the daily horror of reality to get to my prize.
The boss is off duty leaving the colleagues to rest a little easy as I console workers who gave time to themselves...
If you work slower they beat you harder. If you work faster they beat you harder. Rain falls with power on the rest of the pack, as I shiver like a pathetic drowning cat. The walls of concrete speak to me through porous chunks of cement, as the constant reminder of rebellious caring won’t get off my back as I continue scratching.

All that’s left is the moment, outside of that is all.

Beginnings take place to reconcile endings and burn the mistakes of the past, yet like a ragged shell I search deep
for reminders in memorial trash. Who knows what I want? Don’t bother to ask. Who knows what I need? Don’t bother to ask. Who knows what I do? Don’t bother to ask. Who knows what I love? Don’t bother to ask.
Stand leaky boat American and its social rotting wood, the heart of a child and the mind in adulthood, planted firm like triumphal arches or warlike stances to prove that I never forget my roots.
To yearn and hope and go back to the days where comfort and feeling prevailed in most ways, will it happen again? I dare not say! I hope for and not, the fear’s always the same- Afraid when you have, afraid when you don’t. Never invest in the beauty of hope, unless you’re willing to work and make it a common commodity for every one and thing.
The final thing I remember was the moment, outside of that was all. The grass, the snow, the grassy snow blanket balancing acts. The moments now are lonely and cold, learning the tricks of a white collar trade. Drowning the feelings of memories past, that moment eternal... But never to last.