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Painted faces stare
While I peer at nothing.
Time ceases to exist.
I have found the void;
With well lit chinese restaurants,
Floral print men's rooms,
People with VCRs who watch no movies,
Street maps that randomly switch streets,
And it doesn't matter anymore.
A fly slowly creeps and crawls
Up a married woman's half-naked leg,
Toward the scanty leather
That so many
Have seen her without.
Towards the void
So different than the one I'm in.
Eliot's coffee spoons
Have lost the edge to the ashtray
As my cigarette butts pile
Towards the ceiling
Like corpses at Dachau.
Even the pimply faced waitress can't cope
As cars stream by on the boulevard.
Not one is silver with a broken headlight
It must come soon.
I have more mapless streets to see.
More movieless VCRs to talk to
Before I can spend the night
Staring at the bottom of a bottle.
Watching the ceiling fan whirl.
I switch voids like the little bedside box,
Switches channels.
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