CLEAN

I use a yellow pencil to write banana thoughts,
and linger under hot summer afternoons
debating myself between cold beer and frozen vanilla milkshakes.
Nothing seems very full, or clear or meaningful.
But my subconscious boils with random projects and excuses.
I feel stopped, but something in me keeps slowly progressing,
crawling steadily towards an unknown destination.
Stubborn fleas and pants full of holes fill my nights with empty dreams
of stars and clouds nobody seams to remember existed.
Once in a while an echoed voice through a distant telephone line throws me back
into a loveless limbo, dressed with someone’s else’s underwear.
I live in this misty dream a noisy life.
I don't listen to myself speak any more,
just a current of automated words rumble throw the refurbished
half priced streets of this city.
Nothing is left of the zest and zeal of the past.
All uniqueness has been transferred to cheap sweatshops in china
where yellow faceless men handcraft hipsters and graffiti art walls.
While the cleaning brigade secretly sprays the sidewalks with fake spit and
dirty wax wrappers.

My cheeks are plump and soft.
I look at my self in the mirror,
make funny faces
and wonder what will happen when the heat wave finally hits New York.