journal-08/04/99

08/04/99

So I'm sitting in Barnes & Noble (yeah well, it's a place where I feel sorta "at home"). I started watching people and writing what I saw. I ended up with eight pages filled with descriptions of people in some poetic form. The last one is ... well, you decide.

You know what--
get off your fucking cell phone.
You're in a bookstore,
for crying out loud!
It's quiet,
people whisper,
booksellers shuffle books.
The air hums,
murmuring with quiet chatter
among the worms.

And there you stand in the middle
of the main aisle,
your suit-shirt sleeves rolled up,
your posture slouched (how very
American these days)--
and you laugh and banter
recklessly
into this intricate piece of plastic
connecting you to your world.

You're not that importnat.

I promise.

You probably talk on the cell phone
when you're driving, too,
and you don't pay attention to the road
or other stupid drivers on their cell phones,
and when you get in an accident
one of you has to decide who will
hang up with whoever you're talking to
just so one of you can call the cops.

It's not funny.

You're not funny.

But you are a joke.