High Heels
High heels hurt my feet.
Asian women wrap their toes.
We are all human.
High heels hurt my feet.
Too tall for them anyway.
No one wants to dance.
High heels hurt my feet.
Towering over the world.
I am beautiful.
Sitting in the Smoking Room at the Houston Airport
Waiting to Get the Hell Out of Texas
Every body checking watches through
thick clouds of what-
Smoke drifts up the walls-
tar dripping nicotine sadness.
Our cramped carcinogenic cage. The smoke. The watches.
I can't breathe.
I don't know these people, but I know-
the nail biting, the foot tapping
tapping
tap tap tap
and with each drag
our visions grow hazy and our hearts-
dispersing like smoke through the vents
in our heads, seeping toward those we remember
ourselves in spite of beating beating
beating
along with the tap tap tap tick
tick tick.
Gears grinding us away from our poisoned
pasts toward a who knows what who knows what if
tomorrow.
tick
tick
tick
and with this last drag exhaling my regrets,
leaving behind a cumulus haunting of my smoldering
fears, stagnant but still so alive.
Beating.
I checked my watch
There is no more time and they are telling me to get in line.
Appalachian Day Dreams
The dealerships drop the hot
wheels for heroin. Sticky money
slithering up their noses, higher
than the poor folks who fantasize
of middle class medical leave
while they purge
their piggy banks, vomiting regret.
Morning after delusions
of gas money dope money
money money money
momentary love. Getting to work
on five grams and a hit from your
Floridian pharmacist who pieces
back together the crushed up
dreams from the rotten residue of lost inspiration.
Crushed oxys melting hearts and calloused hands.
Waking up doesn't feel good
when burning does. But the lights stay on the kids
stay fed. Money Money Money
you can't quit. A problematic perpetuation
reduced to a fine powder. Broken
backs for eight bucks an hour-
the cost of a pack of smokes.
High heels hurt my feet.
Asian women wrap their toes.
We are all human.
High heels hurt my feet.
Too tall for them anyway.
No one wants to dance.
High heels hurt my feet.
Towering over the world.
I am beautiful.
Sitting in the Smoking Room at the Houston Airport
Waiting to Get the Hell Out of Texas
Every body checking watches through
thick clouds of what-
Smoke drifts up the walls-
tar dripping nicotine sadness.
Our cramped carcinogenic cage. The smoke. The watches.
I can't breathe.
I don't know these people, but I know-
the nail biting, the foot tapping
tapping
tap tap tap
and with each drag
our visions grow hazy and our hearts-
dispersing like smoke through the vents
in our heads, seeping toward those we remember
ourselves in spite of beating beating
beating
along with the tap tap tap tick
tick tick.
Gears grinding us away from our poisoned
pasts toward a who knows what who knows what if
tomorrow.
tick
tick
tick
and with this last drag exhaling my regrets,
leaving behind a cumulus haunting of my smoldering
fears, stagnant but still so alive.
Beating.
I checked my watch
There is no more time and they are telling me to get in line.
Appalachian Day Dreams
The dealerships drop the hot
wheels for heroin. Sticky money
slithering up their noses, higher
than the poor folks who fantasize
of middle class medical leave
while they purge
their piggy banks, vomiting regret.
Morning after delusions
of gas money dope money
money money money
momentary love. Getting to work
on five grams and a hit from your
Floridian pharmacist who pieces
back together the crushed up
dreams from the rotten residue of lost inspiration.
Crushed oxys melting hearts and calloused hands.
Waking up doesn't feel good
when burning does. But the lights stay on the kids
stay fed. Money Money Money
you can't quit. A problematic perpetuation
reduced to a fine powder. Broken
backs for eight bucks an hour-
the cost of a pack of smokes.
