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
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