I play roulette with a cannon,
a single-shot barrel that swallows
my head and sounds like a cave.
My staple gun has a rusty hinge,
squeaks like a dying bird
with every report or breath
fastened to the gravity of repetition.
I light the extended fuse
and walk to the mouth of doom,
awaiting the truth of seconds
New pens are sexual partners,
their virgin seals violated
by my teeth and signature,
by numbers fucking numbers.
Every day a storm and a failure,
black socks staining my feet
while seagulls get lost in parking lots
and my fingers memorize paper cuts,
waiting for the fuse to dry.
walking out into the road
like his hip is a piggy bank
a horrible grin of piano keys
hovering above a yellow smock
One dollar is all he needs,
to solve the housing crisis,
to touch the outstretched hands
is as contagious as air conditioning.
If I lose my job, my home, my love,
you can find me downtown by the bars,
strumming my guitar like a blind man
searching for faces in the blackness,
case open on the pavement like a ribcage
without guts to enclose, hoping for
some loose change, some loose smiles,
to pay for the next round of forgetfulness.
Jay Sizemore plays guitar and sings poems for the damned. He resides in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Elizabeth. They have three cats.
is now publishing poetry and prose
inspired by these, uh, "tough economic times."
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