I know a guy that carries his dry cleaning all wrong. He has no idea, that Olympic boxing is rigged.
He forgot about the Panama papers, and that Nick’s (on) thing. We both forgot about Northwood. (I mean, could forget about Northwood!?)
I really like His shoes though. And, He and I, talk, often.
We talk and talk, and the circles of our mouths form celestial walls around the disinterest we have for each other.
But, He’s alright. Buddha hold’s a
real keen eye. Dude,
doesn’t have a passion, He doesn’t have an event to go to. He just likes to keep things straight and narrow.
He has no idea that there were never any bodies found at Giza. And,
He holds those freshly pressed shirts, over his left arm like a butler. Where is He going?
I’ll never know why He mixes his coffee and his aspartame?
He and I talk everyday. I try to shake His hand, but sometimes His hands are limestone.
We are both masters of Two-sides-of-the-same-coin.
I’m not sure I’ll ever see Him again.
I’m not sure He knows.
His words, and my words, they continue to mix. Billiards, milkshakes, the sanguine felt.
He tells me, that I should buy a new pair of shoes. But He knows that I hate shoe shopping. So He laughs when I scoff.
tire’s are filled with granite.
The hub caps of His brown car are only a tissue paper facade, and He will continue to hold onto His figurative of saints.
At the very least, we know that
all gods die.
Like spirits in the rain.