Each individual tooth is like loose leaf. Mouth opens, exhale, melt manhattan.
Who cares for New York when the gap between the rich and the poor is so massive
Each incoming mayor must staple this void with parking tickets and page six cutouts.

I feel nauseous. My hands feel nauseous.

Tonight these hands shall throw up everything my head has been hiding
In the last month the news has squeezed glue into my thought to make stories stick
Instead, they are making me sick.

I feel nauseous. My hands feel nauseous.

Tonight these hands shall pluck each grain of sand off of the surface of earth,
ingesting each one until I am rock solid. From here on, all hope is lost…
Thats a good thing. Hope is pretentious. There is so much pressure on hope…
Our intentions become necessity for survival.

All of this red ink becomes spilled blood and we have corrections to make.
The only thing statuesque about me is my marble mouth. That is why I need this pen.

I feel nauseous. My hands feel nauseous.

All shaky as if two seperate individuals clasped onto my forearms…

Crying coconuts.