The I that gathers all the facts. (The symbol that denotes me.)




The starting line, square 1, it’s all good to start with “I.”

But is it I that wishes to start?

Life is not a set of choices.

 

A kid of 14 who started out December 1973, from Montreal,

He is on the run after escaping custody at the juvenile detention center St. Valier’s,

He is now hitchhiking on California Highway one,

Now the passenger in a green Falcon driving between Monterey and Los Angeles,

Absorbed in a panoramic view to one side, an over stimulated Salam chain smoking guy, to the left.

New Views of the Pacific at Big Sur unfolding before these impressionable eyes.

 

Ok, it is said that the whole-body regenerates over a period of ten years, so

This “Not I,” has somehow grafted memories

Of events still disguised as firsthand experiences.

 

Some memories have worked their way into his psyche.

Blended right in you could say.

Their descriptions being localized in a present of

Originals mixed with modified versions slightly corrupted by (Time?)

 

What does a crowd on Broadway Blvd. on a late afternoon look like?

A crowded street lined with hookers… two obese (twins?) on mini bikes.

And if it is only a memory

 

Only memories need help.

A scene of chaotic intrigue,

Now calmed and somewhat meaningless.

Just a busy street now in the early evening, with

Well, that is all it probably ever was.

Those eyes are not there now,

Only the lingering effects remain.

Maybe lending itself to a new enlightenment, new material maybe,

Visible to a minds eye but not present.

 

This retro occurs from my studio in October 2023,

His name is Kenny,

If they are looking for me over something that happened in that past, how can they be sure they have the right person?

There is no law when philosophers would be sent to jail,

Or  (being murdered outright, dismembered and fed into a vat of acid to dissolve.)

Tyrants of the world will forget what they are.

In their attempts to appear greater than he was.

How do they see the world in their greedy trek when,

There was this boy who travelled,

Selfishly,

Taking in the world

Having only pants pockets to carry the memories home?

And still a distance to cover.

 

 


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