The All Night Artichoke Stand

I lifted my head at the bus depot to talk to the wind,
     but it did not answer.
So I waited and waited, but no answer.
Stepped cautiously in, found my favorite seat.
     The guy with the hat was there again.

The driver recognized me but made no attempt to acknowledge.
The passengers stir in their own private spaces.
No one speaks, only the lonely.
     And they never stop.
The floor is usually littered with trash, the whole trip mundane.
     Disconnection resets itself on my shoulders.
Memories turn their head from the seat in front of me.
     A few seats up the future mocks me.
     And from the back the past haunts me.

How did I get here and why am I staying.
I am on auto pilot, the routine is fun.
     But not serious.
My thoughts remind me of nothing.
I started smoking again, just like before.
It's the routine, it's soothing and familiar.
     It's all wrong.

Nothing has changed but the weather and the weather remains.
I pretend that I am not one of them.
    In fact I am the most steady player of this awful game.
This is the unfortunate tale of a tortured soul.
     It is very old, indeed it is very old.

I have seen this before but cannot remember when.
The bus responds to my call to stop and I clamber off.
     Hey you with your daily routine and your monotone life.
     You with your BMW and your full lipped wife.
And you with the big knife.
Put it aside and take a good long look.

We all share the same space.
The chemist can live with the poet.
     The anarchist can live with the pet shop owner.
The model can live with the lottery agent,
     and the mother can live with the child.
One day we were all gone.
Does it bring us back to the very beginning, before everything.
Or does it bring us to the end, of everything.
     Who is to know.

No one needs to fear you, with the cash.
     There is nothing you can do.
We are all racist, even amongst our own.
There are no answers,
     And nobody is right.
No one writer, no poet, no singer or songwriter,
And no musician.
     No painter or pauper, no scholar or sculptor.
No inventor or magician, and no dancer.
     No thinker or doer.
     No hack or moviegoer.
No teacher or sinner, or pistolier's daughter.



FNK 1999