But

(because i wanted to say something, but can't center enough, so borrowing from the other day when i could: this will do for now)

You have?
Sure, hasn't everyone?
Well. Confused. I don't know.
I didn't think so.
I don't know you. Not that
well.
How can I believe you?
You look like a pothead.
Whatever that means.
Aparently everyone has their
secrets.
My eyes are generally red.
What does that mean?
Especially in a world where
God is dead.
Whatever that means.
"With greater power
comes greater responsibility."
Age is power, supposedly.
I don't have to eat the spinach now --
not if I don't want to.
Limp. Soft.
It will not go inside me.
I can choose this time.
Supposedly.
An old man sits,
soft and limp.
Not one, but two,
strong young men stand.
Circling him, surrounding him.
Hovering. Heckling.
Leave him alone!
Two shout, as we drive by.
Too afraid to stop.
Or careless. Maybe carefree.
He's not our old man.
He doesn't belong to me.
I have other problems,
on this side of my white-picket
balcony.
I'm suppsed to write this book,
a precious look.
All I can think is:
What the fuck does it all mean?