Waiting for a ride to a place not far away

She sits waiting for a ride to a place not far away. She reads a book she does not want to, she is late the bell has wrong and she is not in class. 3 more show up one sits the others stand. Easier to stand alone then sit next to the one they do not know. Another sits barely on the bench, not comfortable but the strain has left her legs. They talk as friends do, the reader is distracted listening in, there is nothing she can do, to afraid to join the conversation, looking for her chance.

The Shuttle, the three disappear while I look down, for them the bench was only a temporary reprieve, the one still sits reading. A new one, music in ear sits and stares, in his own world, pondering the day ahead, like two stones they waiting for a ride to a place not far away.

Shorts of Truths

What sorts of weird ful-lessness goes on in the world, what shorts of truths acknowledged but not said, believed but not dealt with, where can I play in, in understanding, any of it, it’s immense, something about its immenseness, something about an obsessive nature, a driving force behind which, there is no understood reason. I am in a strange place those I am associated with do not feel like home, those that did not have history, weird search for home, peace always, belief in trying to find peace of mind, in surroundings, individual of but involved in different ways. Right now I can hear the shouts around me calling out for attention trying to make some connection with each other, some sense of the world.

Making frames as art work, for a piece,
Not looking at the picture but at frame.

Getting sliced up with paper.

"Women always play along" Budweiser

Timing animals routines knowing a spot
or fact obscurely making it your own

always averting issues, people not deal
with communicating things
asking people whats going on.
How are you but wanting to be polite
How much of you life goes on inside yourself.

What are you ashamed of?
The next best thing to being gold
is SBC service
Blazing fast internet

No walls except those in your mind
One sits alone to see solitude silence searching the skies
None here to see him shout, to see him cry
none for him to feel, For long he has sat
for long he has been alone, Long does he
lone is he

OF INDIVIDUALS

Of individuals; tap into, continue, pick up where another let out, or left off. Others constantly working on the same idea, passing knowledge from one to the next, one line ends another begins, centralized art, complete individuality and importance placed upon individuality, keeps separate, not always taught to work together, art if life, what art forms exist, what are the areas and levels of the discussion placed, hold at what should be talked about, what art is today, how can it be broken, what can be forged anew, why one over the other. Who can lead the charge, where is the boundary, is there one any more, still, and always because each person, professional draws the line, I put as anything could be art but there telling in time, and labor, we are the sprits and prophets of the future, our last attachments to the physical world, each developing their own views and interactions with it, their code by which they understand, creating history to prove the truth of their words for memories past. Through which a new different understanding is grasped. And we are all praised by massed professionally judgmental; I am my own best critic, the one that must believe the most.