..did you say something?

the same jazz hands that make thin dust clouds when the finger's flutter gets to close, the fingers that clash like the straw of a broom making that rustling sound that scrapes at the pit the very bottom of your stomach,

I reach into my empty gut disgusted attempting to vomit but alas it's just filled with dead air.

I would compare my stress to the sad old song of war paramedic, I was trying to get by do good but I found only harm harsh imagery and misuse. 

I recite these jaded words while playing skillfully the world's tiniest violin, I bought it on the Bowery,

nothing can compare the distress in my face when I see the way I look, worn down, angry, and distant,

the only thing that really scares me about my own image is the fact that I can hear my thoughts, each second as I look into my own eyes, it's like a chorus of young boys gathered with rats, put into a large bag, pulled forcefully to the dock yard, and as the shrills continue and turn into blood curdling, muffled, panicked cries, tugs, and pleas for mercy, it becomes white noise fading to silence as I awake from  an empty daydream that I'm just wandering in, listless.

draft one

bright red bled from a vanilla skinned cap, that made a dark stain on your nap sack,
you shouldn't carry things around like that, shifting and checking the ground to see how the drip has been chasing you,
the red trail made a tale of the day you lead accompanied by the butts of cigarettes,
they will blow away with the urban parade, stepping lightly, stomping defiantly, drudging through,
the trail gathered in puddles at the gate, of an ex that you love to hate,
and though you seeth with hatred you still stand in that place
at angle beneath his window to gaze,
the empty window framed the empty space with drapes,
though it was obvious nothing happened it was enough to fulfill some state
of mind piece of mind, filling your time up with nonsense to pay your bills,
catching up catching up to the real way you get your thrills,
some blocks away riverside the trail trickled and stopped,
this

the trail cut off for a block at one time and in the space of those tracks you could see the garbage dragging off to the curb in a trail of slime,
then the dots became apparent just in time to gain my attention

if.

another fluttering thought that slipping through my fingers onto the studio floor,

my deaf ears can't hear it flopping around gasping for air until the movement stops and it appears to be another mark in a mosaic of splattered crusted paint of the tiles.

given

sooner or later leaves will strain their connection to their deep rooted better halves,
they'll flee for freedom, but the weightless feeling is the overwhelming sensation before they feel the crash,
and it's a mortuary, a cemetary of crisp vacant dreamers,
unfufilled but strong willed,
they lean so far left until all bonds collapse sending them off into some purpose
the whirl,
the push towards the unsure, it come with hesitation, but that's just the push and pull, things won't come quick enough speeding to death's door, birthed to a burial with family and neighbors from next door.
nothing's really sad at all, in fact it's quie beautiful the scars and wrinkles as they form,
the folds of baby fat that flatten out and grow strong, till it gives in to itself tightens is smoked, taut and torn, and then the body goes back sleep the same as before birth,
it's as you awake for the longest day on earth and return to sleep, but in that sleep you are dust.

bad date

suffocate on cake half asleep in a diner on east side of town where the eyes are little more shifty,
the crowd could testify that you weren't high just exhausted and possibly mildly inebriated,
abbreviated terms for your half baked smirk as the medics helped you to a seat upon the curb,
I had no part in your rescue I was thoroughly upset and I felt powerless amongst the team of professionals
never the less, the lesser I knew about you seemed to construed some eerie premonition i had in a dream in my bed
I remember your train wreck of actions, the breathing tube up your nose and down your throat.
this followed to fruitions as i draped your coat over your shoulders in front of your home,
don't expect a call in the near future...

the first morning of may, no new messages.

it's morning, arose
cleared the blood from my nose and the sweat on my head gleams likes crystals before the sunset.
my red eye 9 to 5, 5 to 9 , has left my back twisted and my brain fried and despondent,
how to relate to a world running on a full tank, how am I to gauge when I look like I just inebriate, sloth like footing using a chair as a crutch pushing back horrid thoughts from one corner of my mind to any clean surface and reorganizing them on a prose with rhyme.
a forayer of my memory which has burnt itself so dry, my voice cracks and falls flat as my imaginary balloon of hope collapses residing flaccid on the black linoleum floor.
good bye April mornings, hopes of lovers, and the notion that connections can make it past friendship; bitter, you bet, and you can help burn this cigarette until it falls from my cold fingers and fills me.