The Know-Nothings

While all the potheads were off
vaporizing, smoking,
breathing, toking,
distorting reality,
battling against conformity,
feeling an ounce of fear of getting caught,
getting caught,
sleeping, relaxing, killing time,
celebrating and rejoicing in the hands of their captivating, illicit vice,

I ran a mile's worth of events on a shoddy dirt track.

The only similarity between us is that I had a
massive case of the munchies when I got home.

And I like it this way.

I know nothing.
You know nothing.
No one knows anything.

I know nothing about what it's like
to feel a chemical creep into my brain
seep down into my skin
and then rollick in my bones
until the feeling's gone.
temporary.

You know nothing about what it's like
to feel the last fourth of a 400 meter race
the out-of-body experience as you kick, lift, breathe
towards that beautiful, dusty, white line.
this lasts.
permanent.

There are in-betweens
But they know just as little as we do.
Blinded by wanting to belong
While convincing themselves:
The motion makes up for the green.
Poor runners! poor smokers!
Committed to nothing.
These are the saddest of the bunch.

And I like it this way.

~-~