I took a look around and realized I’m back here again.

Finding clues to a riddled life printed on cardboard cereal boxes. Nutritional facts for a starved teenage imagination. Gathering deeper meanings from gigantic green road signs.

Applying a detective kit on early morning infomercials. Knocking out the fat.

Hidden symbols peek out from underneath prescribed surfaces, all beckoning subconscious attention. But I was happier then.

Everything good needs replacing after all. The beginning of the end is the end of the beginning. A rose is a rose is a rose. Knock, knock on the door. Who’s it for? Better break on through. To bat country.

The key turns.

But the Spender in me can’t bear the conquest. Thanks, Ray.

Yet it’s stuffy in here. I’ll just keep the big door open.

The breeze lets itself in. Proof originality is immortal. And that nothing’s been done before. It all just is. It’s all just you.

Question countertops. Interrogate tray tables. Then they’ll topple.

Come out from under the bar. Come out wherever you are.

The moon is full, shining white through the gray. It’s made of powdered sugar, political promises and barbecued spare ribs. Would ya eat it?

Why not? The Mayan calendar ends in four years. Think your world will disappear with it? Come dance across the water. You could keep floating, just for a while, until the warehouse slips away.

Read into it. Read your way out of it. Between the lines, the pages, the walls and the halls. You pay for what you get. You might as well earn it.

But the streets are crowded now.

You want a world with your own rubber stamp on it. But all the stamps look alike. And all the ink is red.

You’re allergic to possibility. Or maybe it’s the asphodels. We all are now.

Let your hair down.

Check out the view.

You aren’t what you are. You’re a figment of your imagination. You’re its plaything. A puppet hanging from a photoshopped string.

Blame it on weed. Attribute it to ‘shrooms. Insist it’s the coke. Equate it to ecstasy. They do.

It’s 21st-century witchcraft. And I’m the warlock.

Double, double, boil and trouble.

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Sweep away. Keep away.

We’re at bay.

Wait until they come and then they’ll steal you. They’ll take your self away. But all their cards are Kings. You’ve got a broom. Why not use it?

Ascend the pyramids and find out for yourself. They’ll spend their lives pillaging the catacombs below.

While you’re here, look down to the ground or up at the sky. Pulled by profits or envisioned enlightenment. Which one lurks at the fork in the road?

The tree is dying as we speak.

So I’ll ask you as we part:

Has it really all been done?