TRIP

Skin dressed; s t r e s s e d

for brushes

with fickle stain; they happen

Head down; no sound

yet; a glance 

in shabby fabric

and awkward lumps

It's free; they are here 

To dine at tables of clever moves

To drink in temples of lucky breaks

To walk upon the red carpets
of no-dance chance

I'll sit with swans

elegant and dumped

in bowls of iced-water

Stamp barefoot on hide-stakes

left by Indian friends

and delusions

It's never right

in 2.2 days

Is it 2.4 now?

Whatever ...they breed

and spread

Dissatisfaction breeds dissatisfaction

We can stand in sacking and rags

Scratching our skin

and bleeding for art

and arts sake

The music never stops

it plays the same old scene

and there is nothing here

blank it; blanket

Lose your self, become your soul

in the cinematic production

of existence

that feeds on its hungry watchers

Would it play if they walked out?

Empty house

SRWB 2010