A poem scratches
Below the surface of consciousness.
It’s in my fellow homosapien.
Unless they share the itch;
The searchlight scans right over the sea.
Written in her ponytail and visage
When her dog shits in the packed public park.
The sun sets over a sparkling
Marvel of human engineering.
We are the center of our own universe
And it’s still embarrassing.
Concentrated on thinking
People are snickering at every display
Of pure primal instinct.
Those people over there
Puffing on tropical punch hookah.
These people over here
Copying Yoga pose.
The energy of the night
Keeps just ahead
Of how fast my pen can create prose.
I record this Friday night
While people all around me live it.
I love it.
I convert seconds to ink.
All I have to do is think.
Absorb the inevitable philosophy.
The words a byproduct of