The faces are in the bricks one by one piled into the wall. I can feel them staring and observing and criticizing; the cardboard houses shutter beside the dumpsters as the crows ascend, fleeing. I can feel them watching as I crawl from the alley.
The faces are in the windows a hundred stories high. I know they face down and are watching and peering and leering, corporate courthouses for the American Dream, warehouses of needle-dicked neck-ties stored in climate-controlled lockers. I don’t know what they want.
The faces are leering and bulbous and large, jeering and peering through the back of my skull – What is he? What is he worth? What career is he? Who does he think he is?
To what they criticize and complain I do not know, the looks in the faces I do not know I do not know I do not know.
What is it that you expect!
What is it that you want!
The faces are in the sidewalk hovering all around. I walk faster and try to keep my eyes down, keep looking up, glancing, I cannot keep myself from side-eyed wondering what these faces are for. They hover all around, disembodied and disappointed, condescending in their disgust. Timidity on my shirt-sleeves, fear stitched into the seams of my jeans that do not fit and have not fit since the day I stopped consuming, starving.
The skeleton walks and the faces leer through its ribcage, having eaten.
Mick's Neon Fog 
Very suggestive but to me seems to describe the was that advertising surrounds us – an abuse of the human face because it’s at best an act and at worse a lie. Am I on the right track?
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Honestly, what I was trying to get at – and this is admitting failure because I think I missed the mark – was the feeling of being looked down on by those who find success in a system that makes no sense. I was just trying to pin down a feeling – establishing an idea, or a message, kind of took the backseat. But, I’m glad someone was able to read something into it haha. I assume anyone who reads it is going to take it to mean something different… it’s certainly vague enough.
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The best poems let the reader in and it becomes a joint enterprise. Reckon that was Bob Dylan’s secret …
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