have left me paper-like,
My stomach is a bin
of shredded documents
and each time I cry
my thoughts smear dark clouds
under each eye.
Newspaper stands undulate in the sun,
but I need someone to read my paper palm
and pinpoint what the fuck is wrong with me.
Stamp me, file me, crumple me, destroy me,
write in my margins then shuffle me in with the others,
make me into an airplane and sail me across the room,
fold me up and cut me into a chain of people
or maybe write a love poem on my back
and give it to a girl feeling paper-like,
and carelessly dog-eared.
looking for anonymity
i go down the hill
to sloping streets and buildings
which are tall
and pretty much streets themselves,
and I get even more lost in these streets
with their cryptic padded elevators,
the colors of a marsh
and empty floors
under renovation and
I get so lost in these streets
slamming different buttons
and getting more frantic every time
the bell dings
and those doors slide open.