on offer
illusion of a childhood that never was
curled around an open bar
tell me the secrets that don’t matter
and we’ll nod
mutual assurance of nothing
words fall small
at our feet
peanut shells of loss
I’m not staying and neither are you
as time passes
words fall small
a blizzard of dollars
people stand alone and on display
in naked glassed greed
as the countdown begins
money flies
in the face of wanting
fistfuls of messy cash thrust forth as proof
of something claimed
dazed clothed strippers wondering what they lost
to gain
words fall small
a flurry of uniquity
uncomprehended
among us
people alone and on display
we let our hands fall limp
meaning drifts
we’re not staying
as time passes
curled around an open
wound
That about sums it up, counselor.
Hee hee.
Right?
Wait, were you there?
Sounds like every corporate meeting I’ve ever been to.
HA!
Are you on a word diet these days? I love the results, but have to eat extra beernuts, with a shot and a beer to make up for it.
I always offer exactly what I have to offer.
An open wound, implying having been wounded so probably definitely in the wrong place. Definitely.
Because the incapable of wounds…here’s to the woundable?
Which would be all of us …
You come here often?
Pretty sure I’ve seen you around.
Strangely conjures visions of powerball.
Both the winners and the not winners.
Huh.
my mind…
Funny thing? Google “Blizzard of Dollars” and know that people at this particular event took their winnings across the street to buy Powerball tickets.
So you see … more than I said.