Tomorrow is the quarter's end,
flipped to tails to decide who gets
the last piece of the pie.
But math never was our forte.
We can only count the days until
we meet again, singles made
into a two dollar bill.
The clock ticks like
loose change trembling in my pockets.
The seconds waste away.

Maybe five is what I deserve,
a lucky seven two beats away.
Is it not justice for the strong to
deny the weak their day in court?
This is our tribunal, tribulation,
the trial of the sensory sort,
the sensitive sort, some mixed
feelings not yet sorted.
And only five jurors showed.

You are not a narrative,
not prepared, not braced
save for your teeth.
Your eyes, surrounded by
shields of glass have their
quotas of emigrate emotion
to fill like morning mugs,
so they're seldom gone
from their post upon the
crossing bridge of your nose.
Your eyes, with their Chernobyl centers,
like candied apples with caramel lace,
blanketed with coldness and a
cunning vision glaring from the pupil
with a sparkle smirk.
Your cheeks are, like you, high and haughty,
bones pressing against the cream of your face
like a lover needing release from these
non-consensual bonds.

You seem to have a thing for blondes
and non-committed things: shrugs and loves.
Your podium skirt, your pedestal boots
do little to solidify. You are sly liquid
slipping between mental cracks
and broken minds like Eden's serpent infestation.
You're the breaker of greater paradises.
You revise the despised accent to suit
you like a tailor, a censor, black bars
going lengthwise across your chest
when you wear that dress
and vertically in your future.
Get used to grey.

You're a marker, standing tall like a tombstone,
dates written in sharpie, a conviction epitaph
from your days of being corrected
by greater minds you accept like false diplomas.
A crimson bracelet once twinkled
around your wrist, or so you say
with your eyes. You think you've died
before, once more to live.
Maybe once you were someone worth a ****,
before you turned into prom incarnations.
You seem to think that, like the wine
your daddy bought you, you have a kick,
and even though you're all leg, your
thighs were never good enough for you
and maybe you show them off too much.

Like a hotel, you try to accommodate
other souls within you, a biome,
but there's only vacancy inside your heart
and that's the pool with the broken filter.
Your sign mouth, neon lips all aglow
promote you and your greater
philosophical concepts written
from eight thirty to eleven
on notebook pages and margins.

Snuggled in your corner,
New York, New York, an echo to an echo.
Boulevard cleavage flanked by
lamp-post pigtails,
headlight eyes and
warning sign lips.
Your skin is cream and
your personality is sugar,
but you're hesitant for a
second round of hot coffee.

Spare change to alter
a tiny density.
Densely packed clothes
folded in upon themselves
like possessed spines,
toothbrush thistles spread about
like a lover's hairs on my sweater.
Only visible upon scrutiny.
Why me, denying my responsibility?
Could I blame gravity
for spilling myself on the floor
of peace?
Falling to pieces,
falling, cascading, rain-dropping
like tears,
tearing open new arguments,
weary, older things clung to
by skin and dust retreating to
recessive elements.

You make an offer
I have to refuse.
But you don't understand the
reasoning.
I seem irrational, irritable.
The inn isn't expensive,
it's just the transit, you say
as you could the zeroes
forming chains and infinity loops
across your bank statement
behind their little corporal one.
You forget that green isn't
just money,
it's envy and emeralds
and I'd buy one but I'm too filled
with the other,
so you call me a diamond in the rough.
Do you understand
the pauses between pulses,
the reason I pay for promises?
I protect myself from myself
but pride cried and I could die if I
accept what you're trying to give.

The King
breathed dust
and returned to it,
folding in upon himself
like a child's love note passed
between curious hands.
His fingers drew contrails across the sky
and cuts across a face.
Ambiguity is his medium,
but heavy is the guilt upon
the little corporal's corporeal shoulders.
He blames hubris.

Take every one you find,
you data mine from minds
excised, exercised, exorcised
from details emphasized
and breathed here between
pretentious pixels and
the utter necessity to
write the worthwhile,
transcribe tomorrows into thoughts
louder than action.
Sentence sentences that lied on the stand,
judgmental Judas crucified on land
and two by his side in the sea.
Read the series bible, the rough sketches
of predetermined lives written in fibers
thatched into cardboard,
folded into boxes, stored and shipped
into some great beyond
(Maybe the back of it is nicer).