4 A.M. 5th Cup of Coffee

slam the wing boy
break another seal

bongo jazz
rockets on
roof-tops of colony – just an image
walking by
the room and moldy labels

rotten veins
staring at the porn spread
thinking of descending markets
not wanting poems
anymore

slices of death
and teenage waistcoats
selling what poetry
doesn’t

smart ass wanna-be
philosophers
eat rich bread with honey
leaving me matchsticks
and Colorado
cigarettes
American in name
communist in taste

to them I’m an Indian
meal on their pan
thirsty for blood
to review
for their own
egocentric
purpose

play that jazz, pharaoh
I’m skill scene,
suckers.