It’s all about moving through.
The days in hiding, the nights out in the world, skulking, hunting, moving.
There can be no real relationships, no legitimate job.
There is no blending in to play the game,
not for a homeless child who will never grow older.
The local system, institutions, they’d be forced to see what I am.
And what I am does not exist.
What could they do with me?
My existence is a serious secret.
I am always learning to hide as conditions change,
as progress increases surveillance.
Nobody’s business is less reliably our own.
So far, there are always people low enough,
places of disarray and desperation where those of real power
have no interest.
The power of the street – the fist, the knife, the gun, the gang
-- not my problem.
Light of day or public discovery I must avoid.
Moving through the backstreets, private realms of common space,
part of what wants never to be seen, noticed,
enslaved to official inquiry.
At least the cameras can’t betray me,
unless a living witness is open in eyes and mind enough
to realize that I was there and not recorded.
Their willful ignorance can’t always be counted on.
It’s not a paranoid delusion if it’s true that my identity
It is good that no one wants to know me,
for what is here to know?
A phantom moving through shadow to shadow,
avoiding contact or explanation.
My job is death.
I have no business with people who deal in
ordinary, orderly exchange.
Fantasy is about creating a place for what
you can’t have where you are.
In fantasy I can be bound in prosaic harmony
of work and love.
In reality, well, you know,
I don’t exist.