I am surrounded by whatever people
getting to work on whatever highways
stampeded by honking hoards of horses
harnessed in iron rods and wires and gurgling pipes,
ridden by unintentional cowboys,
the new breed of carboys
who chew common places,
and spit out banalities,
demotivated drivers by day,
missing lovers by night,
trapped in their metal, shiny, sleek cages,
sliding on wheels of all-season rubber,
that take them with increased speeds
and improved GPS-es
to the whatever day
of their own extinction
The planet
is a non productive life environment,
it lacks leadership,
there's no roadmap to the future, no life projections,
God could be an outstanding architect,
I give him that,
but he's an absent manager,
with all these people swarming around,
who could be singers, or poets, or mad scientists,
but they end up
stuck on the highway,
aiming to take an exit,
any exit out of their miserable lives,
some of them managing to do that,
mostly on the express lanes,
Whatever drivers
parasites on the slender arms of the highway,
like insects sucking from an asphalt stem,
like sneaks shedding their skins
of illusions, or dreams
quickly abandoned in the high traffic,
piled up on the side of the road,
the whatever road
I have a hard case laptop,
a helmet with arteries of bytes,
instead of head,
my mind is all wired up
to think functions
and utter commands
instead of thoughts,
or feelings,
sometime verses pop up on my laptop’s screen,
instant flashes of light,
out of nowhere,
those are bugs, biensur
that I need to shade off,
to get a good wash,
with soap operas and reality tv,
to get cleaned up,
to get debugged,
to fully live my demotivated life
in the affluent neighborhoods
of the whatever cities
Stuck in traffic
in a tide of whatever drivers
flux and reflux
of insignificant things,
of underutilised lives,
floating adrift
in the high seas of Nowhere
