How the world turns,
I want to know.
The sun turns us.
I was told that the sun turns us.
Unsatisfactory.
This answer remains unsatisfactory.
Logically, I use my brain.
I ponder
and compute
and wonder
as well.
Just as well as the platinum man on the corner
who carries stale pictures of his son and daughter
(age 2 and 5)
and this remains unsatisfactory.
Don’t preach to me about gravity.
I bear witness to a rooted truth
a younger world
and fresher rainbows.
I have met the raw and simple.
The universe is not so confidential.
Don’t speak to me of longevity.
Truth is immortal.
I fall asleep with the taste of waxed paper on my lips
and the smell of plastic in my nose
and a single string of tomorrow in my eye,
glinting in my eye,
blinding my eye.
You know not what you ask of me.
Save your words for the next platinum man
with lipstick on his tongue.
Please forgive my lonely lips,
for they know not what they do.
Can you tell me answers instead of questions?
Tell me how the world turns
and speak not of young theories
fabricated to pacify my sense of tomorrow.
Aged lies are lost on me.
Instead,
offer me a tree’s breath
and worn out rainbows
and a map with edges.
There are many maps with edges.
Speak not of certainty,
but sell me a fragile truth.
I dance with fragile truth.
This is my goodbye kiss to your staring eyes.