It doesn’t matter anymore,
all that other bullshit;
Look down there from the 40th floor
gridlines, gridded paper, squared off
little ink blots-
The frantic ants below, all aglow-
Red and white just beads of light
Lined in deadlocked rows,
Rush hour, hands to the sky-
Fate, a god?
All of the above?
Who knows why?
No cabby stops, they pass you by in judgment, careful selection-
Who makes it home?
Life consists of selection process one after another, right down to the beginning- fertilization-
egg and the sperm, who wins, the select one plus one.
Only the lucky will know, the one with safe looking eyes, and nice granola clothes and the one with skin tone just so-
The others walk head high- through the rain to the subway train,
Chance it, with strangers, sardonically feigned.
Yellow and black taxi cabs like citrine gems- the royalty on these roads!
Or like those coloured plastic beads from childhood your sisters used to string, made you wear, friendship bracelets- with yellow and black strung out-
A small bold circle, just like you.
The sky scraper with office of four glass walls-
That’s your other home, glass like blue iceberg from the arctic-
You said you couldn’t fly-
Walk on air-
But there you are
just look at you now-
Way the fuck up there
40 stories high!
Who came up with stories as a means to describe height anyways?
I suppose it seems fitting, if you give it much thought,
How many stories do you think there are in a square meter of people stacked up-
One cubicle of life, more, one floor?
How many pages could they fill?
Bound- pound for pound,
ounce for ounce,
ink, blood and water-
you're king of the world way the fuck up there!
40 stories, squared off is what?
Math was never my niche,
nevermind, you already know- you're a god (calculator at hand)
you could start a kingdom, ruler of worlds
of glass and of concrete
I could make you a crown,
of gridded paper-
paper clips for jewels,
as you walk on air,