I often ask myself,

How many pages are left?

In my book?

From my pen?

Are things to be different,

if they can’t stay the same?

Past Barstow,

due West—

I lost track of the time.

I left my baggage on the carousal

& never looked behind,

because this race was for the big ones,

The ones with the cheese.

Passing on depth,

but dwelling on equality—

What’s the difference to you?

What’s the matter to me?

I feel neglected by a socio-ecological politician,

who claims to be the latest disc jockey—

To drop beats- instead of bombs,

—It would reek—

Hope from their eyes.

We would see humanity collect its belongings

& collectively redefine.

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Read your palm like a tree