The walls move in

on him,

pressing out the vintage

of his flavor,

forcing a banquet of


into drunken lazy air

where lipstick releases


and gin holds no lies

as the music burns

through the smoke

of last night



morning slaps the creases

of a sun

between chairs

and over faded curtains

as the yellow lays long on

sawdust floors

where napkins possess

wrong numbers

and names


while on a shadowed gray


the trumpet man

blows his gold into a

stream of wet sounds

where dreams stick to


and sheets

as they hold the flesh of

lovers and friends

under stars of a music

that cuts to the

face of hearts.





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