tempest din

music notes floated out as smoke 

into the cold sharp air 

hands wove around waists in and out of grasp 

knees and hips jumped onto the swell of sound

ravaging pulse, greedy fingertips gnawed

so many bodies drowned under the foaming beat 

dizzy-headed stalks swirling in wind tunnels 

clodding feet gave in to the heavy sway of wine laden lids

turning mouths curled into themselves in rapture

and memory drifted out of minds until 

slowly elbows fell over wooden shoulders 

and instruments came down like 

tired leaves

missing parts

It's true, i'll make a mess of things

that's my specialty

baking arsenic into apple pies

things are messy and i get distant 

things are broken parts are missing from both ends

the clock on the wall is ticking the seconds 

until i can get straightened out  

until i can get clean and dry and soft and still

any day now i'll clear the air  

absolve

my history in the book stacks

thick with dust 

 I'm not expecting to make sense of this

because my senses mix and blend the colors muddy 

maybe i've only learned how to stain the surfaces i touch 

but i know i've learned to love

i'm full of it 

sometimes swollen shut like a black eye i failed to ice

i'm my own silly victim of clumsy trying

trying to catch clouds of thought in jars 

to spill out on the page

trying to make my dark places

feel nice

with flimsy blinking strings of light 

and temporary tattoos 

and by crowding comfort 

into bottles of booze

the train lurches on through the night and into early morning

eventually i'll get off 

when i find out how and where to stop

or,

stop trying to find out 

things are messy and i get distant 

things are broken parts are missing

 from both ends

longevity of cash

He didn't look homeless. His pants and jacket were clean if worn and loose. He looked like someone you might see on your way to work stiffly bending on his front step picking up the paper with a tired groan. I couldn't read emotion on his face as he stepped and shuddered slowly past. I noticed his mouth. The deep creases hugging as he chewed out words to the ground. I had the urge to roll down the window to catch what he was saying. Then I saw what he was holding and understood. He was selling socks. At this causal fact I broke in half, my blood spilling invisible. If only I had some cash I would jump out quick. The bank was ten paces away, I could run in again, take out a bit of the check I had just deposited. He wouldn't make it far I'd easily catch up. I would give it to him and then-


then what?

The question punctured an artery, in an instant my chest drained.
My fingers fell from the door handle.
The idea was flopping in my belly like a dying fish. I could buy a pair of socks. Do something small.

 I didn't act.

 
Grasping to empty my pockets that night at home a twenty dollar bill fell onto the table folded into a shrugging rectangle.

 It stared up at me crisp, dead.