Blunt Knife

driven by a painful stain i say yes to 1/2 empty Bukowski tankards full of dusty nothings meanwhile sitting in shallow quicksand @ 96 sweaty degrees in this emerging limbo of rent-per-hour eye blinks flicking rusty milagros erecting indifferent sentinels to guard against a past-due event of forgettable magnitude breathing as if here but not really there feeling all kinda so sharp betrayal yet acutely bland as if a still deeper black could hide the stitches if maybe kinda as though the pain of being discarded could fade to fuzzy and not hurt like a blunt knife cutting with careless regret and lack of purpose