everyone needs a hobby

TAXIS ARE LIFE proclaims my tee-shirt, as I stylishly project my arm straight ahead; the streetlight highlights my cotton message. Full of anticipatory bumps, my unyielding arm is a signpost to an outlandish landscape. Like the eye of a severe poet, catch me darting, forever analyzing the avenue, in search of the desired vessel. Ah! There! stops a smooth couch-like bubble on wheels. I look in, cordial, eyes contacting and then, pull open the door into my preferred world. I HAVE ARRIVED. The driver does not know what to make of this and asks, where to? Flipping through the rolodex of my mind, I select a destination across the city. Take the long way, my body language suggests. The observatory on wheels holds me at a remove from the metropolis moving. Cozy and quiet, I could almost be snuggling on the lap of a PVC-clad woman. I’ve changed into my new tee-shirt: CONVERSATION IS DEATH. The driver understands and switches on his radio. Houses we pass wave, people indifferent, the mountain we ascend is best and lends itself to look down on the city bright with electrical stipples of structural light. I dress everything in psychological cotton as we descend our ascension, until our eventual stop. My heart is at home and ask the driver to turn back, assuring him I’m good for it. Tee-shirts for tomorrow create themselves, as the Muse joins me over the cell-phone of my psyche, unearthing ‘taxi’ and ‘road’ as metaphors. I tell myself for later: FUCK DESTINY. ENJOY THE RIDE. I want to say it, but why say what you can wear?