$2 gas

i am still left with that empty
feeling that comes from standing
up too soon only to receive a quick
right hook which promptly drops
you face down on the canvas.
a wicked evil way to begin

but to end the day at paradise
with a nice glass of coste-du-rhone,
attempting to ignore the terrible calamari
at intermezzo and all the hours before
noon. whole heartedly trying to aerial
my way out of routine and depression.

leap frogging my way from blonde to
brunette and back to
blonde. singing for my dinner at road
side off ramps with a sign reading
‘no formal training’.
climbing the monkey bars between half
court presses, pressing baskets of
albarino over a stainless steel tub that turns
sunlight into lightning. diving into pieces of a
game named backgammon with a ritualistic
air even khomeini would envy.

a journey of numbers divided by
syllables, tallied by short
mandarian speaking gentlemen
proficient with the abacas.

with a finish edging toward finite
resources, I cling to hope like
two dollar gasoline.

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