driving and surviving.

you can see him,
four o’ clock in the afternoon
on a sweltering summer day,
collecting paintings
from here and there,
and stacking them like
little people into his car.
you can hear his music,
lava like prog rock
with some possessed uni-sex voice
talking about abra cadabra
and the art
of remembering and dismembering.
he is all that there is
left in the cobwebs
of this cosmic machine.
he is driving the streets
as one who makes
life altering incisions
with a stainless steel scalpel.
he has chosen to sing
to the birds and billboards
and never refuses an offer
to drop those little seeds
where ever flowers once grew.
i am looking forward
to the Polaroid’s he will give me,
the ones of his cranial folds.
i will take them home
right away
and study them
under a magnifying glass
until i find the solution
to all this love pollution.
copywrite:jeremy szuder


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