::08:05:08::

::: Seventy-seven :::

Waiting for the water
To boil
Always with the night
Long tucked behind
The hazy sulfur yellow
Moon past my exiting
The train, the platform plunged
Into the dreamless
Cobalt July trees
In the village of
The dumb fountain by the hospital
With the only recycled,
Circulating water besides
The blue fountains
In these wrists
I see the dark,
Black stain
On the concrete

An invisible man
Left the scene
With one less foot
Dragging the other
Like some poor octopus
Confused by the suburban,
Bleeding his dark, dark
Writer’s ink
Out of one sole
Work boot,
Silently mumbling, “...that sad coffee is only coffee now, not strong or weak or hot or just.“

A word that ends
As it was when
I went out earlier
Like the beginning of the end
To join the late
New York revelers
In the plains
Of downtown technically
Down south really
Where no possibility
Of a rebel exists
Anymore than their
Luxury distensions

I could not even
Out hear the stream
The way I normally do
With all the dull anxiety
That beat me into
Stupid putty
All-day-long

Tavern on Jane long
Long gone to the pink
Rose light of rose
Wine on sale just past
The neon psychic for some
Bucks and roses pink
A few petals for me
Would you for a change?
In my pocket
With a hole
That lets the pink moth
Wing change flutter down-and-out
My Wrangler pants leg
A trail of opal
Crumbs for those
Seeking any comfort
At the tavern
In my bone chest

Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla

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