nose to the stone
business creeping out
to fill all crevaces
of the day and night
my hours my worth
sand pouring into each crack
between This and That
and then mr. stevens
through paper vellum papyrus walls
that intersect the corner
into which my bed stands,
its half-naked and limping silhouette
mr. stevens and his flute
"sweet like choclate," my other neighbors say
as if shrill and tin could be
baked into a german chocolate cake
--impossible alchemy!
happy man, not bald, not fat
not anything different than ordinary
except for that thin wand
that misses every other jump
from ledger line to ledger line
tonight he finds his familiar knack
for duetting with my telephone
and i have to hang up limply
a glance tossed
to the tousled bed,
half-clothed, like an impatient lover
and i wonder what keeps a bad musician
loving his disfigured art.
nightstand wobbly kisses the bed
almost spills except for my lunge and grab,
but tips still,
deposits a thunk at my feet
that book - you know the one -
bought 30% off publishers price
it looked interesting
no time no time the mantra
until tonight.
nowhere to escape an off-key soundtrack
except between the covers,
and so i dive nosefirst
and do not sleep.
no sweeter music
than that piped into my corner habitat
as i found myself completely lost
450 sheets counted and won
as dawn sprung
with the delicious wink
of pure decadence
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