i sit on the streetcorner of your mind
and every once in awhile
you drive by
throw money at me
say
hey baby
how about a
smile
and i smile for you
because im in the red
naturally

you do not mind
paying for my ******* smiles
and playing with the curvature of my lips
you do not mind
buying me for an hour
to smile at you

i am glad
that my crinkled eyes
are enough to make you feel better
i am glad
that you feel you are good enough to me
to demand a smile for free
sometimes

and only because
i want you to feel better
do i give them to you
even when the bank is looming
shaking all the outstanding debts
at me
that i really
owe myself

you do not mind
ravaging the smile
you paid for
you figure that you are allowed to ****
that which is yours
and i let you
because you
paid for it

He is an open sore
Hopeless romantic
A blister that burns burgundy
A stalemate of statistics
Gathered blind in a
Swarming rage undercurrent

She is an inspiring
Inhale breath with
Intoxicated integrity
A baby bird at the bar
Waiting for her feathers
To be felt in between his fingertips

He buys her a drink
A liquor love potion that won't work
An ethanol elixir that will
Only serve to
Even out her inhibitions and
Cloud the memory of
His hands taking flight

She takes shots one after another
As he feeds her them like bullets
Drunken target practice
Waiting for the one where
He hits the mark
That spot right next to her heart

He knows it's only a matter of time
A recipe of patience and
A fresh paycheck
As he checks his watch
Wishing the time would tick
Faster and closer to two

Forcing them outside into the night
They fly
Leaving the bar behind
They fly

He takes her hand and
Puts her head against his chest
Cradling her
The baby bird
In his raven grasp
Taking off
Taking her
They fly

Anxiety.
Conserve.
Conservatory.
Shakespeare.
Man.
Monk.
****.
I ******.
I'm better.
Expulsion.
Breathe.
Friend.
Not friend.
Friend.
Best friend.
Awkward.
I still have that.
Dress.
Tights.
Queen.
Mill.
Birthday.
Song.
500.
Guitar.
Te­ars.
Nostalgia.
Nostalgic.
Dead.
You're dead.
You're dying.
I'm dying.
I'm dead.
I'm not dead.
24.
You're blonde.
I'm not blonde.
I'm old.
I'm still old.
I'm a child.
I'm going to cry.
Stop.
I don't cry.
No more crying.
I'm allowed to cry here.
That's why I cry here.
I'm allowed.
I can do what I want.
I know what I want.
I have no idea what I want.
But I think that's what I want.
I'm not doing what I want.
But this is enough.
It's not enough.
I'll make it enough.
Where am I?
24.
Twenty.
Four.

Stop thinking.

Sometimes it's good to cry
and sometimes it's good to hold your head up high
Knowing when is where wisdom lies
Tears must flow, a way of cleansing i'm told
they're precious much more than silver or gold
But this too shall pass as the wise men often say
Hearts grown numb from constant hurts will one day be okay

How do you tell your friends, "Hey I'm having a panic attack"
I don't know they asked when I went and I just told them "Cigarette".
Sat by the river in the drizzle and had a nice long cry.
Screamed at the emptiness, "You made me this broken! For what?"
Nothing to throw so I threw my head back and sighed.
Looked at my phone and thought about the time...where'd it go?
I lost a dozen minutes and can't find my shoes.
Maybe I'm truly drunk on this sobriety, and ****** with self righteousness.
"Someone pick up their phone. I'm scared and alone!"
The drunk man stumbling by looks at me and hides his eyes.
Looking at that flowing water, just stopping the thoughts.

Bobo's kitchen

in the kitchen
icebergs rampage from the freezer
burying pizzas and waffles
in a glacier jungle
Bobo swings forks and knives
at the ice until the maintenance man
cusses in Polish
gallons of water
dripping downstairs
sizzling Bertalina's soul
the fiery bilingual single mom
living in fear
below his fear
of noise complaints
she sends tape recordings
to the landlord in her
cute red faced anger
loud people! and bongos!
guitars! stomping! laughter!
nightmares for her boys
who think they hear ghosts
her tight black spandex
drives Bobo mad when she runs
drifted scents of her food
sift in through his windows
knocking him out
in hungry frustration!
¿Como estás? he asks her
I speak ******* English! she barks back
back up the stairs Bobo goes
to his own kitchen where
the mice crawl out the stove tops
and potatoes grow tree roots
clear through the window
toward another life

Jake Mahaffey

Copyright (c) 2013 Jacob Mahaffey