and they drop out. I count
them every day. Some
leave. Some stay. It's a number's
game. I don't know their

names. I don't know who
they are. Like ashes from a
cigar they tap and flick the brown
rolled stick till I fall inside the

tray. I lie like pieces of
clay in the smoked green glass
in a heaping mass. They water me
with hypocrisy. Upon their cheshire grin

they sputter sarcasm. Spinning webs
of silky lines I'm a fly caught in
my rhymes. Drinking ***** and lime
till I drown the moon in my spilled perfume.