Traffic

Traffic  
traffic, traffic, traffic,    
inconsistent, insistent, prolific  
   
Traffic's a mass, formed by  
those taken aback by a crash    
as well as those    
who clap as both of them pass  
the same cars stacked in  
horrific pile ups  
   
Where souls, passed away,    
   
float miles up, casting warm shadows  
on those who still roam,  
doomed to stay torn up,  
demons, upon those with feelings ignored  
after witnessing such tragic displays of    
the horrors of traffic in spades  
 
Haunted, those who drive faster    
and try to fly through the havoc,  
that's a savage with rage  
   
Sometimes I don't see traffic for days and  
other times traffic's in my way wherever    
I stray,  
traffic's sporadic and  
there are no    
traffic fanatics  
who are not in news choppers  
or are    
those wirh screws loose, into hopping  
in and outta traffic,  
to see if they dodge it    
and remain OK  
   
Weaving, hoping they    
don't get splayed    
out    
and find out    
that warning signs have no way    
of being too emphatic    
when it comes to    
safety bout traffic  
   
I deplore  
those acting stupid, that    
some humans call brave  
who are often graced by    
the dismay of having their faces,    
hips and knees all splattered  
in traffic as adrenaline addicts  
do, when they presume whack,  
thread needle, doomed  
to be turned into soup, tactics    
to be valid and true  
   
Goons, running through without practice,    
as chickens, crossing roads, often do,  
chasing pennies to pinch
 
A few are admins, guiding    
traffic running to my blog, it's  
there cuz traffic belongs where  
fear is materialized and    
I was in traffic when I realized,  
words, sad  
about traffic blocking the masses  
killing both nuns and assassins  
can steer tears to the ducts of those dumb,    
with delirious eyes, as I  
milk fear  
   
So I say weird things about    
how traffic lies and  
imply    
that air traffic spies    
from metal birds in skies  
and I go on about how traffic    
looks like the tight squeeze of a  
hole in your home, trying to home  
more than ten mice and about how all the roads are    
one small bowl    
that can't hold all of the rice and  
I make liken    
traffic, to small frames of minds  
holding hundreds of lice  
to your child's chagrin  
and I spice    
up my takes and my spin on it by  
telling them that this is how  
things will continue, this is how  
it always has been,    
and I spell out how traffic is    
like    
a pack of    
chattering    
dolphins  
hauled all at once    
into    
a small tent,    
sitting tall on the ice  
   
Or I give them advice, on how traffic is like    
ten men's advice, failing to seep into  
the ear of a fiend  
or a strife, riddled friend,    
listening    
for no more than the chime  
of bottles clinking    
or any distant sign  
of his vices  
   
A man  
with no interest  
in seeing wrongs, righted,    
or to be endeared by your charm  
or your grins  
   
Recently, to see one sight of him  
was to leer into grim,    
he's not alright    
after only a minute and  
he's gone, he's feeling dry,    
swerving through traffic  
with songs beaming from high  
loud enough to cause accidents  
but he's drumming along  
drowning out mental fog    
and the drone of his low social status  
in his ears drilling  
as he claws  
at clouds filled    
with all    
that makes him ill    
and all that keeps him tense and tight  
when panic is striking and so    
he drives in a hurry, despite    
the odds of something happening to  
keep him from all those good feelings,  
of which he frequently writes,  
being so sleight, even in traffic,    
especially at night,  
especially since he only needed to make  
a left,    
but he drove straight,  
quick as light  
into the divide that did smite him  
   
Directions, formerly noted, eclipsed    
by his excitement  
   
His wise, glazed over    
by the draw of the thought of  
self induced implosions,  
he couldn’t remind himself  
where he kept his drug stash,  
indecisive, he crashed,  
going through primitive, ooh, ahh, ahh  
hands in air, scared, motions  
   
Failure, his habit,  
as fate would have it  
he wasn't even in traffic  
   
Another life to write the skinny on,    
far too thin  
cuz a lot of bad happens,    
but I've gotta  
keep up with the flow of all traffic,  
report on smog,    
thievery, stabbings  
   
Make light notes on any    
passerby passing  
through the eye of my pen,  
or the scene of a crime  
I've been assigned to  
stream line, vocalizing  
my impressions  
of sights, depressing  
through  
my machine of    
congestion,  
there's a lot to squeeze in,  
a lot of friends to offend,  
coffins to mine  
   
There's a lot to discuss  
on the other side    
of  
my  
limited  
digestion  
   
Yet, I shove this    
into the bin  
if it'll    
even fit in  
   
Just give it a minute,  
all of our sins live    
to find a place  
in some traffic  
one day and  
one day    
   
I’ll be in black and white too,  
you'll be able to wave at my  
wave of static  
in newspaper too,    
as you are  
skimming words of voices,    
void    
of warm passion,  
I'll be suspended, eyeing you, flying,  
as you pretend I'd be flattered,  
shattered, you'll pretend  
I wasn't forced to see you    
as an ant on my shoe for all    
these years, you'll  
tell me I mattered,  
even though I lived  
minimizing citizens, doomed  
and babies born blue  
Gloom, my knack, my habit,  
you're snot flicks,  
my old scabs picked,    
not citizens,  
news, I'm a catcher with mitt  
   
So I submit    
that you scratch me out  
if you find me  
as a glorified name on a sign,  
replacing Shakespeare street,  
shining  
   
Scratch my name whether you    
find my word  
inside binding for free  
or you paid to have it to someday read,  
scratch me out, burn the paper and stab it  
don't let me be    
one with the traffic  
   
erase me please,  
Should I be ink or lead, praising  
my piece of traffic