What he sees, and what I write: Collaboration Poem

The angry guy, in a striped shirt barely misses the the Kawasaki security cart as it zooms by. Both noticed the speed signs, but both hardly caution-the angry man walks blindly, as a loud girl in a yellow shirt booms to insure she is noticed-only to over-step the happy kid in his undies, skipping and whistling-secure unlike the loud girl, who wishes to crawl out of the bushes like a depressed alligator, looking for his hole. She won’t let you see her quiet insecurities; she’ll talk louder to drown them out. She has learned that if she appears taller than the brown pointy tipped lamp light, no one will notice how small she feels; she will be this way for the rest of her life. An international man has a demeanor of a flatten cigarette. With watery eyes, he points to the bushes where a torn up Doritos wrapper lays which teeters softly as the wind blows. Something tells me that the Dorito bag isn’t the subject of the man’s watery eyes. A man rides by in a yellow bike letting the wind hit his face instead of the memories in his mind and the emotions in his heart. He eyes the blue bike leaning against a light-pole, free and Blue, like the sky- but the angry girl who walks past without saying hi, has let the memories take over—she’s angry because she couldn’t say goodbye; she doesn’t have closure. The black bag rolls across the pebble stone like tumble weed near a tall brown building where cheer leading practice takes place, because it wants to belong too. A girl makes her statement with the entire front of her jeans ripped bearing skin. She doesn’t understand yet that this won’t connect her to someone like the glass tunnel that connects two buildings that she is walking under. But she doesn’t care right now, because she is reborn, slowly like the turtle crawling out of a spitting fountain, she bears more flesh everyday. Giant killer ants attack a boy as he sits on a dirty bench kicking branches and bird feces stained leaves. He sketches in his notebook as the golf cart drives by. He notices that golf cart didn't have seat belts; he remembers he didn’t wear his--he remembers the men in white pulling his twin out the car, he remembers the closed casket. It should have been him, hell it was him, damn, he wants to be where the other him is. He tears the sketch out and the tosses the torn up notebook in the trash can. A bright red bird flies across the sky to sit under the tree with the dingle berries on it as the curly hair girl smiles at the cool albino boy.