In the Clouds

Spent neck cramps split up the middle. Sunbeams aren't spoken of as much. Neither is gaiety. The exhaust so prevalent, ignored and accepted. Carbonized particulate matter continues its journey. Atrophied cilia, lung tissue frosted with ash, coated, basted, cemented. Acid raves might be dead and gone, but kids still smile and dance and smoke under the most adverse conditions. The rain and wind in collusion. Living under the delusion that somehow I will survive all this. Isn't that what gives us permission? Either way, Sesame Street. Or, more accurately Sesame's Treet. Turns out neck cramps are no longer on back order. And don't get me started on back pain. 4 hours of sleep, an eighth of weed, and 14 continuous hours of work. Walking back and forth and back. Maybe a couple of rushed cocktails. A chair--black, armless, vague wool tweed, post-modern minimal--hiding actual comfort. And it didn't just rain. The confusion gets in your hair, under your eyes. And yet I keep smiling. Cocaine rings your face out like a faded washcloth. And yet you keep talking. Roar of nerve damage filling the space between. Cement walls or inflatable poufs. Annihilating rhythm with lights, the clear and opaque plastic walls too. Through that doorway and to your left (about 40 thousand times). Frantic humor, bananas and beer, hungry curious eyes, and unavoidable cleavage. Such lovely people, all of us laughing. The sound of. Huddled together and work happening. The quality of plastics declining obviously. The music gone instantly. Piano key slanguage. It could mean the world to a littler girl.