A Street Poem

This is an okay kind of day. I try not to notice much, and the ‘much’ pretty much ignores me. There’s a flashy bookstore. Bookstores don’t sell my kind of books anymore. My favorite books are never interactive, or linked to a crappy website. The best authors are not - on-line celebrities. I can’t read Tolkien anymore, those ‘Ring’ movies stuck a sword through the heart of my imagination; now I only fantasize about sex. I’m having a bad day now. The street is full of cell-phone zombies; the blind digitally humping the blind. I’m an endangered sub-species – I’m old. Back sometime in 1949, I was also a street poem of sorts, a dark secluded corner of a street. I was a travelling squiggle of sperm. That was a fun time, the whoosh of the whoosh was even better. I’m grateful that my parents didn’t murder me, thus, allowing me to write free verse street poetry, or do I mean blank verse? What the hell is poetry anyway (rhetorical pause), probably not this. This street is full of much more stuff than I care to mention. However, there’s a liquor store. Liquor store servers always make a point of saying ‘have a nice day’, you know they don’t mean it. They are professionals, they know you are not buying all that booze for a backyard party with your many friends. The street ends about here, it meanders off into the city like a clean poem looking for a dirty ending. I think the day is just okay again.