Take close up pictures of my face when I'm sleeping and tell me I could be a jazz musician in clubs with my highly talented friends whom I often jam with in dark corners of alleyways, we all dream of these wild clubs with booze filtering through holes in the ceiling and only blissful intoxication pervading every attendee's features, making them all glow like phosphorescent angels descending spiral staircases from the clouds, only blissful intoxication and not the kind that leaves us regretful and hating of most things, our bodies torn up from the inside in these caves we wake up in often enough to call home, however temporary, then the godless dancers in uniform crash the party and enforce warped justice to the screaming eulogy of a first class jazz extravaganza. The clothes disappear like we've all got x-ray goggles to use for nefarious purposes. how is public speaking in a nudist colony? does anyone get uncomfortable in their own skin when they remove the masks and make amends on torn page at a time, the typewriter as an old invention to reuse and live inside once more, all my best friends are creative motherfuckers, it takes a lot of interesting conversation and bright lights, glorious, to make them sated and content with it all, the grand crystal ball scheme of this whole facade, we are flakes of white powder in a snow globe, constantly shaken up, we'll never settled at the bottom with the rest of them, rather live on top of the buildings, the glare of the glass keeping our eyes sealed shut, but behind the dumpsters in major cities there are warriors of great strength of heart in mindful ways living beneath cardboard and without the stigma and the potential loss of rights from without.
