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

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

And pretenderdom.

The best part is when someone locks my eyes and really sees

The raw material and ignores

The shell.