In Reality,

Let the fingers paint these tiny walls,
that blacken into squalor
while the little sail boat captains
rest assured,
know that all my little paper bombs
brush into devil's corner
and hamper my every deed and drug

listen carefully, you see
to the chime that sing at morning,
do you think they call for wind or call for me?
see? I've
nothing to lose but a shopping cart,
I've nothing to maim but my skin,
and no one, not even story books,
can take me from the men, they
write in their papers about darling girls
who write and draw and dance,
and they see a good beauty
who lost to confusion
and that, my friends
is not me.

I live in a web full of long-gone folk tales
of the lives of those came and gone,
they whisper me secrets of past on endeavors
---oh, pass me the plate, will you not?

yes, give me that soul to let rot.