Tuesday, December 6, 2011

At the End of the World Party

They were checking gag reflexes
at the door. Marian wasn't allowed in
after her eyes started to water.
The bar serving free cocktails,
my mouth turning blue, my teeth heavy
and ready to call bullshit.
That familiar battle between
my ears: Tell someone you've left
the bathwater running, how flammable
are you on a scale of one to ten?
I tried to look at both sides
of the room at the same time
but my left eye refused to wander.
I was the sharp-edged trumpet
in a room full of chairs
teaching each other how to sit.
A loud song that should have
made everyone dance--instead,
the mumble of weather-talk, lazy
attempt at predicting the future.

Then, hot breath on the side
of my face: What happens to your heart
when the bass kicks in and how do we know

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