I know the root is
"conscience" but the
way it's pronounced, I think
"conch" like there is
no seashell, the seashell
of the mind, roaring white noise
in an empty chamber
what can't you conch?
the seashell of the mind
empty, floating
sit on the bench by where
the trollies turn around
someone cracks open a beer
also alone, I don't want
to be a spy anymore
the privilege of observing
the words stuck in my mind
sometimes when I'm sitting still
with my eyes closed I can slice
through my empty body
like air, I imagine it so easy
a butterknife zig zagging
from the top of my head
to the bottom of my feet
walking through the city at night
"University City", "West"
Cowboy and I become
invisible, again the spy
the Penn student in his living
room in a dress shirt
holding a candelabra?
the uneven bricks of
the sidewalk, so many bricks
like people on this planet
I had a thought about them
warping, waving into
rolling hills over tree roots
sometimes my eyes zoom out
and see the trees lining a street
from an omnipotent perspective
and I see how gravity
and wind have acted on them
and I see just how alive they are and
ready to take over or fall over
how silly to plant them surrounded
by sidewalk
