Like any other work day
I pace pathetically,
in concrete circles,
catch a bug or six in my teeth,
inhale a few fly-by-nighters,
and exhale a sordid tale or three.
Typical Thursday afternoon affirmation
of time grinded
into a computerized signature.

My pace slows slows to a crawl,
co-worker’s rear-end
a mere bird’s-eye view,
I stop,
idle idiotically as the party goers
start to arrive and depart.

I stick my nose into the party’s business
and stroll aisle one at a turtle’s tempo.
Like on Mardi Gras Tuesday
without the masks,
my space shortens,
ass-end caressed,
and I dance a congested conga.

I saunter ‘cross the great divide,
right signal sanity’s headache,
and step to the side.
I read my timetable,
twiddle thumbs,
while creating a hazard behind me.
My timetable blurs with an “Oh sh!t”
and back to dancing I go.

I force myself over to the left
stop
and flash fervently.
Red turns gangrene green,
I swing hips to the right
while my head went left
when suddenly silence,

silence yawned,

swallowed me
as if a black hole materialized
right before me.

Stopped,
standing on the precipice
of midnight’s homecoming,
I open my eyes
to a transparent mist’s
magnificent rise.

With a quick pause,
a smile
and a humbled, “I’m sorry, its not your fault”
the mist explodes like a supernova
leaving me
looking for a cigarette
to stuff the situation
down

down into
my nauseated stomach.

i know.

tank you plain
100

kat as you know this is a tribute to Brent Smith(1941-2002) who honored me with being the instructment of his crossing over while I was driving a transit bus 9-5-2002. In four days it will be the 6th aniversary of that fateful day that he crossed-over in my presense.

he picked You for a reason