The Used Bookstore of Life

Often in our speech we deny our-self
self in the sense of our oneness
it seems as if this whole world is packed
like anchovies resting in salt and oil
soaking up everything
I lie, wondering
Has my mind been read?
Did I pick it up on the street corner?
The used bookstore of life had a copy on sale
all set aside for me, everyone else has read it
Is it some sick game that people play
they smirk as if they know who you are
hell, I'm still trying to figure that one out
I just exist in my shell which is my cell
waiting each hour to fill a book
with words that expose my innermost feelings
while some say we live private lives it's all public
when one person knows what you think
the more people will come up to you on the street
and ask "have we met before?"
instead of talking, we just sniff each other and part ways
don't want none of that
what's the use in trying to break this damn shell
every brick has it's own little piece of shade

(June 3, 1996)