my life, it makes no sense.

“...There is this idea of American culture, of being a nomad, this freewheeling attitude. And real nomadic culture, I feel, it's more about survival, visible survival.” --Mel Chin

somewhere in between all the slabs
i keep watching it sting me nervously
it's ok because every inch of me is bruised;
as far as i can see
hours pass,
i swear i did not mean for it to feel like this.
falling in where there is no one in between
strings and things they pull and poke at me like jokes
now the tile in front of me is fading, concrete tiles.
disarrayed and dirty, like them rats in those tracks.
concrete tiles line up next to green thin patterns
flooding the space reminiscent of that grass where i laid with him.
that rat.
that famous day.
the tile before me has been fading, green and clear,
opaque like the lakes where i swam with transparent people
lakes that lead to no nowhere
where is everybody anyways?
where are you!
where is everyone
white and black tile fades into gray
cascading over old treads, grooves of rails and routes
shiny bacteria next to all these rats and grimy concrete stairs
stairs that also lead no fucking where.
tell me, where where do they lead?
the walls are caving in,
underground, we can't live like this!