who’s there?
It’s me again
glaring at myself
I’m ousted from bed
told to “get to work”

he sets a mug of spiced wine next to me
I start to bang away at the keys
i hiss through my teeth
“get to work, get to work”

after awhile I pause to take a sip
confused why notes are not lines
they’re starting to run together though
then i realize that this isn’t Java

I tried a monologue on jazz
hitting a 7th on the 7
but the ribbon broke then
it was too sad anyway
the amalgamation my language can not and will not ever recognize
sounds about right though

they jangle under my fingers while i search for the one that opens my flat
instead finding the spare my lover gave me
The keys that govern have a wicked sense of humor
she wakes up, disheveled and delighted
in the static, from the void, i will produce something mythical
a life worth living