Food for Thought
That is what is left for me and this lunch sack full of greasy chips and genius thoughts.
They wait in stoic silence to become no more than a small snack which leaves the tips of my fingers salty with filth.
Oh but for cleansing, understanding, purity of thought.
One more salty dream, one more slimy reality.
Garlic on my lips and theory on my breath... I wipe my fingers on my jeans and spit in the gutter.
Who will ever believe what is so simply understood to be no good to understand anyway?
Any day can be the day that we finally realize that we are merely what society chooses to document in our epitaphs when we pass...
Not what's in the box beneath the dirt and dirty rocks that slowly rots away where maybe one beleaguered soul will slowly kneel and pray.
Will they even believe we hear them? Will we?
Do I even hear me now?
*@#$! I want some greasy *@#$ing chips!