What do you do?

Afternoon train ride

What do you do?

I will not be your lady to your GaGa;

I will not hack, wack, or lack drugs, fruit, or the next form of jazzercise.

I exist because you will it that way but for all the world there is no am, no I.

My purpose, my role can fuck itself,

My hair, my nails, my underwear trash, dust, nothing else.

Pretty pictures, painted billboards, connected connections;

We the individual exist for the whole to exist. The parts

My parts, which parts?

The lanes drive long, links and chains, words as powerful as seats in my commute;

Centipede years and threads of shine all together blend and blend to be.

What do you do?