Outmoded

a pick-pocket cigarette, first of the day, meets my lips
   with the shock of the afternoon-daybreak sun.
a single chance of impression, careless as the blurs
   passing by, lands amongst the first to jump at it
and when one's clever enough to see above the rest,
   the maddening roar of everyone else
is just enough to drown any incidental gleam,
   dreams of what they should have been.

now I sink in unseen corners, shroud myself
   behind imaginary one-way mirrors, scribbling
as fast as possible, capturing it all, save for
   when I am far too lost in it; myself a victim.
are these to be encyclopedic rolls of the tongue
   like soft-blip, rhetorical representations with just
enough candor to be passed off as an epic catalog
   or am I dribbling a false self-titled endowment?