The streets are paved with prophecies. The lost and unclaimed find it, are housed by it, they pick at it, and bend to it, they laugh while they tend to it, no cry while they are gamed by it.
Whispers curl at corners, straight through they run to you. Have mercy when they wake from side to front of cue. The time they spent asleep was all they owned. The ball finds six holes to fill with dreams, whip creamed, the lies always sound new.
Girth of heart, the might of his pluck and slide. David is Goliath with a copper axe. Tenderly. Soft kill and no reprieve, he will find that note. The invisible is ironic, if you stay low down, you orbit the Okumu gravity. Felt it too. Knee deep. Twisted. Heads up. Watch out. The hope is thick in the mix, running with the Mice of mankind, who own acres of imagination, fumbling the dream. Play on the side.
Signs as I crossed my heart. Eyes have held up the world. A dereliction of duty. They should have been watching you. As I do. Only seeing. Always open to seeing you. Through. Getting out of the way of the lens. Losing only the focus just a moment before the flash catches hold of you. And why do you look at me instead of the lens that designs an impression of something you might not yet be? Or do you see me as the lens that is too close to know your secrets, but too far to not be curious about who you might be?
Napoleon Dozier's Dabbler's Hand 