Welcome To My Bed

What I think about in the interstice between table-waiter and register-jockey.

I need to not be so broke. Money makes me selfish, selfless, too many conflicting things. Carrie shook me by the shoulders and told me not to be a stripper. Selling my skin seems easiest. Selling my smile never worked as well as I wanted it to. Somehow, skin is more real to people than teeth. Or maybe they are just more honest about wanting skin than they are about wanting teeth. Hello, hump-day of summer. Four weeks until I am elsewhere. In four weeks I will be new skin and new hair and the dust of the Midwest and poems for a literal week and hotel swimming pool antics and space through my fingers and other people's beer and white sheets. Poets don't have jobs. Poets get paid to dream, and very little. Poets get paid and then they get drunk and then they get broke and then they write more poems, and so it goes. This is the place I chose to call mine in this heat. This is the bed I will not make. I am lying on my mattress with all the sheets on the floor next to me. It is too hot for housekeeping. We go to the laundromat and read books, go to the grocery store and buy beans. This living thing is simple, if quietly expensive. Perhaps there is a way to stay whole. To not melt. To kiss without losing my tongue. I have turned all my sharp edges into diamond cuts. I am polished well, if flawed. I can make correct change. Play well with others. Move things through space. I have hands. I like the word, "Hello". I have lots of skin, but a much more interesting mouth. I will use it to smile. I will.