Ranbo Ramdom

I feel compelled to write. About what? God. Anything really. I’m drinking, surfing the net, wasting my life. I have a monumental exam on Friday that I have yet to begin studying for. Tomorrow’s a busy day too.

There’s nothing quite like being walked on. The feel of leather soles, pointy heels, and rubber tread running over you night and day. Sure it feels great after a long night stretching out under the steady draft of cold corridors. The initial pitter-patter on the back is a comforting reminder that I’m important, that I’m helping people along their way, easing their stride. But come noon the pitters and the patters begin to pound and pulsate, incessantly, with echoing reverberation that I just can’t ignore. But waxes are nice.  What is it… it is…

Stream of thought:
This world is mad, my friend.
People crying over stolen computers
missing cats
damaged mix tapes
poor grades
while we lose ourselves

The children scream
Yellow rain jackets unfurl
expanding in the sun
landing on the blacktop
The yellow jackets hover and swirl
buzzing in your ear
landing on the soda can
their smiles add sunshine to the sky
the dusty ball rolls off their little feet
across the sparse grass
into an open field
And monkeys swing from the bars
While astronauts launch from the swings
landing on other worlds
where wood chips
are rain forests
are alien terrain
The girls skip rope
and pass notes
The boys run and romp
looking for bugs to stomp
their little faces
drip coloured kool aid
their little laces
whip about their legs
They look for places
with other races
my navel is showing
I pick at the tar
pocket a rock
stare at the sky
watch a bird go by
look at my hand
and think how bland
not to have feathers
to lift me up up up
The pencil in my pocket
is a dagger
some string
my rope
a pocket knife
my sword
a stick
my staff
a magnet
my magic
a ring rings across the yard
recess is over
the huddled groups scatter
and spread
file into lines
following all the teacher’s signs
And soon school ends
and I walk home with all the boys
and the girls trail behind
we make bets to eat worms
picking the flowers as we walk
counting cracks
to preserve our mother’s backs
talk to the elderly guard
in the orange vest
wave good bye to all the rest
And I walk through the door
announce my presence to an empty palace
drop my over sized back pack
the few papers it held
grab fresh cookies from the counter
run outside
make some joyous banter
climb a tree
throw a ball

my mother calls my name
dinner time

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