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Space down the hall where the door slams to an upside down inside out thought of footsteps coming from a session of smoking backwards is nothing left but an empty cage front means forward marching and to stop is done only at a red light who are we in this blinking where orange is no longer a fruit but a shirt worn twice who are we when living is only done at the expense of a free movie ticket Who in all our glory are we here when being there is all but a button pressed too many times,it is the shakers theme on broken tiles where rhymes are erased from the poem it is a running tap in an abandoned loft where the tenants are alive as ghosts I am neither here or there for the right I am it is said.

 

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