4 and 1. thoughts.

I.
my mind works against the jazz
of the town-- loud talk,
flickering candles, perfumed scents
of beautiful women

i'll never touch.

II.
i sip a smoothie through
a black straw, sweetness seeping
between my black lips,
wet with flavor in the midst

of another black night.

III.
i hope for rain,
but it never comes.
autumn has been a stingy
red leaf, not wanting to fall

on uneven ground.

IV.
and the band plays on--
blows its half-notes
into my afterthoughts,
makes it easy to remember

having a broken heart.


V.
my life has two names--
birth. death.
i find it impossible
to define the space between

as time becomes my alias.


VI.
what has become of my mind's noise
as ink paints self-portraits
within a blank void?
will i sprout from this,

or against it?