On our way home

We are
creased commuters, squashed between mama and the silent man with the itch in his side. After-robot! Now we can nurse life back into a tingly leg.

We are
drivers with our windows open and the radio up, we'll chance metal against our temples because the air con's broke and it's a long wait at a dead robot at 5.30pm on a weekday.

We are
the man selling sunglasses at the corner. And the one selling mangoes. And the one selling clothes hangers. And the one selling a massive neon bouncing ball.

We are
the lady selling chances to numb your guilt.

We are
the one giving her money, thinking her child seems too old to be carried. "Look, his legs dangle past her knee," we mutter while fishing in the ashtray for the car-guard's change.

We are
taxi drivers, battered emperors of the tacky tarmac. Don't be so insolent as to believe you have any right of way over us.

We are
12 year olds at the roadside, wielding spark plugs for just one shot for glass to rain. Just one chance. One cellphone. This is the difference between today and tomorrow for me.

We are
the people who shoot them. Thieving bastards deserve it. Damn, he looked older when he smashed my windscreen.

----

You may have heard/read this in the news. Crime has made something ugly of us all, the victims and the perpetrators. See how the lines are blurring.

rush hour

the world comes together at twilight;
day seaming shut, sun bleeding into a pool at the edges, and the gentle assertiveness of the stars.
but the traffic makes us forget.
overcome by lightshows from the other amnesiacs, the mind spills over with the detritus of the day and the recurring comfort of Home.

Red robot, our evening star.
brake light, clutch, brake, stop, de-gear.

and for a moment, look out the window and the soul breathes.

and coughs.
your spirit-kin gripping dirty cardboard, calling out for God to bless you.
your wet-soap eyes slip through, you can't afford the awkward connection, and your pupils find a point just beyond the lazy bum who cracks your heart a little before you steel it once again.
and there, is the little girl.
with the whole wide world speeding around her, their minds spilling over with the detritus of the day and the recurring comfort of Home.
And she looks to the moon, her cardboard held high, a waving fan, brushing against the stars she is, jumping up, flapping wings, chasing at the fireflies above.
something almost pulls, come out and play.
almost.

Green robot.
clutch, accelerator.
Go.

On Albinoes

My friend is phobic
about Albinos,
She cannot stand
to see them.
It defies the bases
of all reason,
yet she's quaking
and she's freezing.

What's so bad about Albinos
I never fail to ask her.

"The fact
they lack
the basic stuff
that makes us yellow, brown or buff.
Melanin,
Coloured Skin,
They're pigment free,
Unnaturally."

But they're born that way
I never fail to say.

"But it can't be right,
Are they brown, yellow or white?"

But that doesn't matter,
if they're former, middle or latter.
Sans that melanin,
that coloured skin,
they just Be,
Him, She, You, Me.
Without that troublesome little cell,
Millennia's history goes to hell,

Wars unfought,
Struggles naught,

'Twould be no sin,
Born without melanin.