There is a mysterious texture to the paper
that composes the thick layers of the city.
The artists have wet and stuck them together
dampening the communication of words and sentences.
“Intricate,” he says
“I could’ve done it,” she says
“It’s genius,” the critics echo together
“What the hell is that?,” says the guy over there with the tie.
In the streets the crowds of plots are suffocating,
coming and going, up from, into, and over the ground.
The mortal storytellers step and stomp over little and defenseless plots
on the cement, in pocket books, and on pamphlets.
Confused plaid shirts made to be patterned, and formulated,
droop and hang from the bodies they desperately attempt to define.
There are animals in this city.
They dress themselves eccentrically in the chatter,
and speak irrationally with their fashion and through their eyes,
quickly on speeding subway trains, trying to keep up with the time.
Cluttered by the clutter, cluttering the thinking,
where, what, who,
how much, and when will it come?
Questions questioning the answers,
stripping the mind of the body’s certainty.
City dwellers thankfully living amongst debris of all kinds,
survivors sifting through the rubble of nothingness that leans, stacks, and builds.
Buildings outline the many passing minds and alter the lights of day and night.
“Which light is real?, “Ask the eyes of those who hide within these plots, layers, chatter, and clutter.
Are these eyes the eyes of truth?
The room has paintings on walls that are painted.
We move through the room with the other critics.
You and I staring at the colors, staring at each other, staring at the others
They say staring isn’t polite. I don’t feel right.
Something has changed, maybe it was all the fumes from the paint
and I must go now.
I’d love to talk to you, but when my thoughts move through
the crowd they become altered.
Forget what I said before.
It was polluted, they tested it and it turned purple.