Without Hat And Cane

You stare deserted at the music you once found half healthy, nutritious and light like that of sun. All knowing in your alone, woebegone to the makers of trash.

With your arrow-through-the-head hat and ravaged fashion you sit Indian on said head dress. Facts ablating by thought, deliberating the whole mess once quickened by the thump of heart, is now retarded art. Impeding the rush of molecular transaction.

Therefore you brood, embittered by the lengthy process of madness. What is this domicile thick with smoke and ash of dust, dancing the death of warmth. Burnt by the sun, like that of your memories of the photographs you shared with mites in your caboodle box. Those worthy of deducing evidence of just how much, she really didn't know, you were capable of feeling. And how I envy every last atom of the what, where and how of her.

My fingers bleed at the cracks where skin meets nail and I exhale. You, this wasn't about me. Bemoan for years, I am in tears. Has she made lament? or feint at how gratitude for a friendship saves her future gents? Let me distract you from your work. Let me detract my last breath and float endlessly into walls, into paint, into thoughts of others so favoring to please. But my favorite flavor is down on my knees under the throat of warm water spewing out of tile. Floating with ears just under the horizon, cogitation for miles, eyeballs inferring the dream…