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.