Snails leave trails
Shiny slimy paths lain across rocks
Spending their damp like they were swimming in it.
I am looking for my path, but it’s more like a chemtrail on a windy day
Fading into the clouds, larger than my steps, evaporating into loss.
Tomorrow’s agenda is like an arthritic hand reaching into a goldfish bowl
Of fortunes without cookies:
Pulling out the lucky winner, written in Chinese.
Each day collapses into hundreds of new faces and voices, but
I am always the stranger,
Always moving forward into the unfamiliar and pretending
It is familiar.
The pretender, asking for respect and pretending we
Are all the same, we can all understand what this is like,
Crossing the land like S cars go
No snail could imagine
How quickly we run away from every minute every place every person every past
Dragging our things with us.
The yesterday I see looks like millions of trails,
Crossing, tangling, crashing, ending.
My sundry odds and ends that made sense once,
Had value and attachment, were vibrant and important
Faded newspaper yellow and began the tattering disintegration in boxes that dismiss them with a word.
As soon as I stop, I gather all that I was running from around myself
Form it into a shape the strangers can pretend to understand
With easy to find handles and a zipper in the back, covering
All of my strangeness
The best part is when someone locks my eyes and really sees
The raw material and ignores