A Stolen Pipe Goes a Long Way Towards An Empty Pouch of Nothing

We were always blowing stale enough air into each other's faces from the smallest

roundest tables available looking at each other sideways at the same sad time as the puppet show now being 

played out with mostly different young actors doing their best posing,     

to look like perfectly dashed upon the rocks adults in mid-flight from death's honking taxi waiting impatiently outside.

I've never understood this familiar allure. Why would you ever want to

sell yourself so short for so much less than you already have so beautifully going on right here?

That's what gets us to keep on ordering more disposable stuff I

suppose. If we appear drunk with enough riches they won't notice

how we once belonged up there, too;  were found to be actually worthy to be examined fully 

under the closest moonlight, brought to a clear enough view to the drunken audience under broken, scattered starlight; now

no longer a wonderful, tender surprise to anyone. Is it better

for me then to be left alone in this time-locked darkly bunched and lighted 

murderous thought cove of my own making?  If , the one who can't seem to forget you and

the one who only wants to,  finally slump off our polished little 

toadstool seats together, might we find that early morning's mirror just a bit

too lost romantic to be believed in, in so directly a fashion anytime soon? Grab me a pair of cheap sunglasses, quick, before I pass out!

But then there's the stark stumble in yet another springlike zombie 

state, walk away, as every last time. The funny thing is how

often the welcome one and all door perpetually opens up like a magic

brick in an ordinary passed by wall, time and time, again and again, like newspaper ads. We're

pulled into its swirling watery grim presence by its strangest pulsating musical tides. We're being

pulled under by the prerequisite stench of so many dreams being

lit on fire at once and then carelessly abandoned to the pull of the latest fleeting strobe backlight. It's nothing you did.

I'd already turned a meant to be shaded of crimson and blue

a long long time ago. I came into this world already bent over the

battered guitar's deeply tattooed body, a throat like a broken tree branch, cremating my own talented cornershop to send my

tortured soul tunes happily through its windows and down the dirty unwashed streets and out into any and all traffic below to come. If you ever leaned in close enough    

you'd have already seen a wounded one, a still trying to fly bird

who was really no different than the hidden and scratched instruments

freely played against the blackened walls like so many other crying shadows

that come and go on a daily basis. The strings ran like live wire right

through me, my fingers played as if broken, as if dipped

in  a lonesome cup of their own filth, washed ashore on a

beach, left for dead among the driftwood's last stand,waiting for the rare

chance to simply blow away. To have meant something again in the melting lines of a new day's unresolved face.