The geography of everything is changing.
The network topology of skin cells across my face,
creasing and pressing against each other,
wincing while hearing another artists’ space
can’t afford to live in an artists’ neighborhood anymore.
Off the stage faster than you can say
twenty times fast.

Twist your tongue for me
while I sit here and wish
that I could just sit here and wish all day,
and watch the waves of traffic honk at each other.
But alas, I have stabilized rent to pay,
and now that your tongue is tied,
I wish I had never asked you to do that,
or I wish you had just said no.

I rock and roll myself to sleep each weekend,
and wake up to find another For Rent sign on my block,
and another apathetically received lie
from our thief-in-chief on the morning news.
As if it were okay, because our own office buildings
still stand in everywhere but lower Manhattan.
And though the paychecks are thinner,
there’s still a TV to watch
and the states of things to ignore
in this ever-changing geography topology of things.

Erupting tongue twisters turn my fire to water,
thick and slippery with the love I have for you.
That’s why they call it poetic license.


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