he takes a drag of his cigarette and tilts his head back, closing his eyes. He listens to his wife blow her nose, and he thinks of the word "tamper" and how weird it looks written down.
he writes it down and squints at it.
"what are you doing, honey?" his wife asks warmly as she dusts the blinds in the kitchen.
"writing," he says, and he writes down the word "honey". How weird is that word?
"About?"
About.
"Oh, nothing." he mutters.
She sneezes loudly.
Sneeze.
"Oh my goodness, these blinds are so dusty!"
"Uhuh," he scribbles down the word "dusty" and "blind".
She looks over at her husband and sees his cigarette.
"Put that out, p
coke, smoke, and cigarettes,
flowers, money, and no regrets,
martini souls and silhouettes
of toned dudes and tall brunettes,
the homeless play their clarinets,
soft somber minuets
about nights they won't forget,
drunk drivers in their slick corvettes,
no wasting time, placing bets,
haven't run outta money yet,
night's heat a daunting threat,
kissing people you've never met,
hide from the rain, you're getting wet,
a time you wish you could reset,
all for coke, smoke, and cigarettes.
can't you see how guilty i talk
my yellow words
they fall from my mouth
like rotting teeth.
I only pick the ones that
cover up my bottomless fear
of losing.
this is the only life i'm given
as far as i know,
there's no time
to make angels
in the snow.
there's no time
to eat fear
and swallow cowardice.
am i crow
or a swan?
neither, i'm a spawn
of molded fruits
picked off a withered tree,
locked in a forest of no light.
let me be right.
but no,
there's no time
to make angels
in the snow.
Tell me I dance and pray for a reason
I'm not here to entertain you
for quarters and collections of coins
I'm not a cheap violin being bowed for
blissful enjoyment
I've been shrunk and stretched
and torn for what i'm worth
what this town is worth
I tap my dance on a table or two
Telling you telling who
telling them I'm so blue
i'd give them something
worth remembering
Tell me I dance and pray for a reason
a charity function for half the season.
I dress up for dining on doleful dreams
people have lost in their pockets it seems
They feed me at night
they feed my guilt
a structure in which my soul is built
I've been shrunk and stretched
and