You can see what you pay to see,
just some smoke out of a chimney
like the cold breath of a building.
I like the concrete cracked and skyscrapers
as dead as I can find them.
I likely only recognize the old names.
You can look around while I tally up
the totals on this magnet slate
that shakes away the old receipts
that no one’s coming back for.
The days are long up here
at the table sliding coins across
that only round the totals out.
The brick wall at the back
creates an echo down the staircase
I don’t listen to.
You can have the shiny gears
replace your guts
for all the dimes you’ve pinched
away from demons, with their
skeletal appendages,
but who you are will not be
any different.
I’ve heard it’s easier to sink
after something like that.
However, where on earth
is left to cross the water?
You told me there was one place left
where the only thing around
was just some gas station
that always had some bait
to keep you fishing.
Maybe I’m the one who can’t see
what they’re missing?
Teleporting Typewriter 