Think of what we could have!
he thought with his eraser
our blood all pooled together
finally!
erasing his sketch lead
with a frenzy
all touching!
leaving little bits
of processed rubber
in flecks on paper
reunification!
rubbed to death
finally!
there she goes
washing her hands again
the radio plays Coltrane quintet
someone on the pedal
brace upon the fret
air billowing cheeks
jazz circus
freaks
spring sun showers them like rain
summer fun they
disdain
sitting inside
needing to hide
lacking
needing to name
all alone together
having to judge
god forgotten
all processed out
like seven eleven sandwiches
mystery meat on rye
thinking all the while
are we dead
did we die?
then back to the sketch
back to the eraser the hand washing
routine on the edge of a
razor
thought progression
composed of thoughts
kitchen sink
porcelain
water marks
back to getting lead out
on paper
and thought life
possession
Trane on tenor sax
thought life
progression
back to being dead
under skin
composed of thoughts
only wax
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