More random shorts.
A short car ride to nowhere and everywhere.
Snow falls lightly above me. Its as if the angels shit on us all. Today even the tired old ambulance is silent. A home made CD plays in our cars player. Soft jazz flies sweetly, swiftly, through the air surrounding us. Lexington Avenue, Exit 22, has passed and is now gone. Here in this car minutes seem like an eternity, and forever floats by in a matter of seconds. The window opens to the sound of a thousand lighters flicking. Setting fire to a Meridian cigarette. A sign warns of low flying planes. But there are no planes for miles today. A conversation stars and ends in an instant. Incoherent ramblings about batteries. The world is silent yet again. A Con-Way bus is driving slow, a driver beside us becomes irate. Eventually they too drive on by. Red light Green light office park. There's no one there. This small town seems empty except for cars driving. Population zero. The town is run by the mayors Sudan. Good Will where the niggers and junkies shop is quiet. The sky is grey, the ground is grey. Flashes of colour wizz on by. Days like today make the world seem more desolate than the day previous. We park. Stop. Take a drink of coffee and watch the world around us.
Tree
I live amongst trees. Hoping that no one bothers me. My feet rooted to the ground. My head up close towards the clouds. Ages pass by and I still remain, barely aged, nothing has changed. Think of times when they worshiped us. Now they cuts us burn us and leave us to rot. The birds and bugs have lost their respect for our kind. Asking us why don't we un-root ourselves and fly. I wiggle my toes and exclaim; I was born here, and here I remain. The smoke and smog kills me slowly. I can feel my branches tire. My leaves fall for the last time. I will try to stay, but my time is done. The humans have consumed us all.
Bee
I buzz by, singing to the flowers, to the trees. Seducing each one to come play with me. My kind is all but gone saying that there is nothing left for us here. But the flowers call to me whispering
"Come my sweet honey bee."
The flowers are not the trees. The flowers cannot leave. They are bound here. They have never seen the clouds. Only feeling the rain fall upon them with no explanation. I feel for my flowers so I stay. Playing softly, gently, tenderly, with their stamens.
Flower
I am beautiful, sensual, and disposable. My kind get picked up and thrown out all the time. We used to have value but now we are reduced to nothing. The bee's have all left us there is nothing. No sweet honey bee to tickle my stamen. No one to talk to. We get mowed down because we are weeds. I am wild, untamed. I will not be blamed because your grass is not green. You put chemicals on me, run me over. Here I am. The last one in this field of green. Your pet will come, he'll probably try to eat me.