Commercial #1641

there's shag carpet beneath my feet

the color of kentucky hay.

shifting my navy vans makes me think of

where i've been and

where i'm now.

an old godard film plays on silent to my right and left,

the subtitles yellow as a

chain smoker’s fingernail.

the avant-garde art sneers at

my pathetic, amateur endeavors.

it feels like a cave in here.

cold and dark.

moist with eager hopes

and common dreams.

i'm sticky with sweat.

not from nerves;

fear said it's sweet fair well long months ago.

experience told my nerves to fuck off and

i haven't seen them since.

no, i sweat because my parking meter hides from sight

and it beeps in my brain.

the little red light haunts my imagination

and my 7th sense tells me

this won't end well.

not well indeed.

Purple Teeth

there’s that age old

question.

it haunts me,

tricks me, and giggles at me,

as i stare blankly into my

bare, undressed,

indecent,

cupboard.

since the nativity of that first

grape.

the conception

of that foremost

bottle.

the gunshot pop

of that first pockmarked cork.

the question was

birthed.

the sour, charming juice that cultivates

debate and sleep.

sustaining 

both the lonely woman and the

esoteric poet.

proof of the messianic and lifeblood of

the artist. 

the elitist scraping for prestige

and

the homeless searching to put

fire in his belly.

the question

remains.

i scratch my scalp. my eyes jump back and

forth.

forth and back.

my legs are sore. my brain is heavy. my

feet hurt from the day’s

lengthy waltz. i danced

my employer’s steps far too long today

it feels.

the question.

it’s that grind that

answers; the

tuesday

grind.

it’s a red kind of night. it’s gotta be red

after a day like

this.

yeah, it’s a red kind of night.