sweaty dancer

soaped and moving matter the
music of disgusting food scraps mixed with
poison and the illusions of hot water
blasted against metal like a
dislodged scream escaping down
the drain

collate the hours spent staring at
porcelain transforming and remaining and
collecting shitty soapspecked boombox in
the corner spitting distraction at half-
eaten sandwiches and pancake inkblots tucked
in stainless steel corners while 6
bucks a fucking hour bleed like
the sweat down a sleepless neck

*

these days i push paper for quite a bit
more but drift on the slow
minutes expand and extend and
manicure each careful second distinguished like a
work of acutely belabored sculpture and
i'm good on the phone i
wear weird masks and
strangers on the other
line think i'm one of them and
tally my sweet voice and can't
tell that i'm just another
sucker