memoirs of a pianist.

I.

They scream, "It's eternal, eternal!"
So we wait in lines wearing our sheep wool paid for by sweat. Faces so sick from the greed they sprinkle on their pizza. All the green hues pass from me, to you. Olive papyrus to satisfy the masses.

II.

We scream, "It's eternal, eternal!"
So I wait in line with my dunce cap, and a heart on my ass paid for with the time of his current girlfriend. Her face a lie; she's been a lesbian the entire time. All the fuchsia hues pass from me to you as I decay. 

Toxic from the NYC sewers dilutes in my oxidated blood. It mixes with the lies planted in the crevices of Latin rosebuds. My aura, a dull grey.

III.

The bubbling sensation in my throat is a question I can't recall, but you were the one who asked so the answer must be bullshit.

He screams, "Eternal, eternal," and that's when I buried myself in American soil.