Time and Nine to Five

I'm at my desk
working the paper into contract knots
when you call with some questions
about a time I barely remember

The boss with his slips
is pacing in the background of my reined voice
but you tell me this is something 
I have to take care of now
and not after five
and not before nine

My cubicle is now under fire with wandering 
colleagues searching for someone to pie chart with
and I mention to you about the numbers
in order to avoid detection, unwanted connection
which changes your tone as

you scream loud enough to wake
    the paper weights
followed by a soft cry like i've never heard from you
    or other humans
and then suddenly I wish it was closer to five
so I could hold you until nine

and I think but don't say
that my time with you
has been like touching the sea

To Be Read by a Walking Bass

Shine from stores spills
onto the come and go road
until glares meet shadows where i'm wonderin.'

I'm wearin' a couple reason to be
stared at:
Jacket too big, shirt too
shitty, leanin'
on a frozen lamppost feelin'
the snow sink into my skin.

Must be jazz night here
as the bar is full of saxy notes
and singers with smokey throats
propeller glass doors spittin' out sparklin'
dames all over the sidewalk
strugglin' for cigarettes.

These people breathe fashion
like it was
nicotine, wearin' pearls
and jewels just
like Frankenstein's stitches.

Eyes full of ice from inspectin' too much
I slink over to the chicks
just like a farmer expectin' eggs
and light them all up with a wave of my match
and a joke they all slurp
especially pink lipstick
who's showin' off her forever legs
and just like that i'm off the street and
in her bed, wonderin'
what happened in between this scene.

Turns out Pinky's snores
last as long as her legs
either that or the jazz headache
keeps on keepin me up
or maybe it's her lingere
wrapped up my boots
like some lacy roots
ticklin' and teasin' me
doin' everything now but pleasin' me
and it's time to go.


So it is,
out
just as easy as in
back to friend frozen lampost
and feelin' the snow
sink into my skin.

Happy Hour

I walk through the bar
and the smoke in the place
until i'm sitting on a stool spinning
like whispers of fog in a field

Bon Iver is bleeding in the jukebox
which was

in cred i ble

and I had the thought that somebody must have fucked
with the machine, only
because, although Iver has happy hours seething through the rests in his music
they'd probably rather pay to play
"Don't Stop Believing"
The screaming and bopping and connecting to disconnect

No

Iver had it
right as rain at the sun's final bow
Just like Van Gogh
who I now imagine wearing a chain of bars
drooping around his neck
as he painted his own happy hours between the wheat

Reminder

How to be a voice
for my group
of solos, flying
with the force
of seven tone stones
and the blinding shine
of crazy nice cell
phones and slow stare
“jobs” with benefits for “stick”
while we get sick and get me
hungup with
The Hangouts, resting
ontop of six pack
cigarettes and
the occasional bitch
and moans and “cyclone”
colognes
and This and That and
before finally

 we breathe
sound and it reminds me of           time

When a Wander Sometimes Works

Clogged the toilet
Muttering fucks
Went for a walk
Instead

Can never find
My broken boots
So settled for slippers
Instead

Favorite shop
Was locked and dark
I loitered and looked
Instead

  Aluminum
Roof dance
Floor for boogie sun
And shimmer prism
Trickle drip song
Loose and branching

And then I imagined
Shit water overflow
Cleaning my cracked
Bath tiles
  Instead.

Approached from Angles

Should I be Frank with you?
Or should I be John?
Should I paint a picture
With colorful sighs
or write a song?
Should I wait and hope
and wish for too long?
Should I be frank with you?
Or should I be gone?

There Are Dreams

There're dreams I write when I'm asleep
A few when I'm awake
Some shadow flash of memory
While longing on a lake
They're books I read of far away
To take me off this train
A spot of stage they give to me
While head breathes out like rain