tired justwrite

Stuck on the back of the bus, watching city lights turn to starlight that turns to me and asks just who do I think I am. I nod and smile, pretend I'm pretending I'm listening when the question marks really are tattoos on my earlobes, disrupting my frontal lobes that are so busy already, arranging and rearranging furniture, thinking it's so feng shui to spill water across the floor boards, set me on the bottom, set my free, like the piles of old books and their mold in a relationship that spews spores of commensalism, sucking words from deep within while half-broken spines hardly notice anything but the rings of coffee deep in the pages, the rings of ages, of years, deep in each tree trunk and each of my limbs, the ones who spell words when I tell them to draw pictures, but I can't blame their insensitivity because they have no ears to taste my voice, not eyes to read the ink spouting from my lips, nothing but fingers that could probe the insides if they wanted to but plant flower beds instead, heaping mounds over grains of life and wondering how the sun can float effortlessly through mud, tickle the skin on the bottom of my feet, move my hair from one side of the moon of my face to the other when there is a metal sky above me, an umbrella of stubborn metal sky that bends when I beg enough but never enough, not enough until I pray, but I only learned to prey, to crunch the individual between my teeth for the good of the population, telling the protesters to take their signs and saunter home--I've got a seed in each of my hands, mold growing across the front of my Bible--I've got it covered.