He charged up the phone again
waiting for a call
from a stranger or friend
Even a bill collector,
with open palms extended into claws
reaching, seeking for any available coinage

To no avail,
reality pales
forgetting to breathe,
poisons to exhale
Putting on this serene face
nothing really matters,
in this wonderfully artificial place
that the misinformed call, 'home'

All these incredible actions
released into the air,
well, it has to go somewhere
like an old bottled message,
water logged on the ocean
riding El Nina's rage
washing up on a shore
lost in an unfamiliar place

These strange days meld into something more,
watching the sun rise and fall,
a shadow crawling across the wall
marking time, silent and sublime

Eyes fallen to a strangers behavior
walking bare footed on red stained wood
amateur marksman,empty cans in rows
firing off a few rounds,
to impress some locals

Not interested in these games of silent politics
alienation,exclusion
flee to the safety of a locked room
drowning in disillusionment,
recording these memories
such a pathological need,
for self fulfillment

Maybe a headstone of sorts,
an epitaph,or a last laugh
in diary form,
wondering why he was born
into such an ugly, hateful world

mathiasthom
written 7/6/09