Screw This Nonsense

The oranges are tumbling
and hysterically ahead.
The hands have started moving
once again, once again.

Cackling laughter erupting
in gargles and drool
from the backseat.
But I no longer care.

As I whispered to no one,
"Those sidewalks keep coming"
So I shall go mark them,
with these tattered soles.

From that backseat?
I am not sure at this time,
for I have left the car.
The door slammed behind me.

Analysis

It was morning that day.
Showers and showers,
yet I was not in them.
Every drop licked my window
like the metronome John Feitor used
during every recording.
Squawking brass,
hooting woodwinds;
Aren't we all just a bunch of birds?
As Koch once said,
"My head is a bird, my stomach a pig"
Four compartments of myself.
One for love, which is kept tidy
for my latino cafe.
One is for anger, built into me
as a young shrimp.
Another for talent, that I use,
that I expand.
And the last for isolation,
for the closer I get,
the farther back everyone falls,
like raindrops on my window
that morning, that day.

Emotional Dice

Hello say the whispering wells!
Yet it was I that echoed into them.

My feet are tapping down the lane,
leaving muddy footprints to dry and crack.

The skies are blue today I see,
although it is the star's gaze to me.

Playing games; trickery is about.
For I know not what is next.

I see the morrow, I live the day
painfully, joyfully, artistically.

Haiku Two

Ignite the downfall.
Swimming through a rusty pipe,
With no ending light.