i am dead, or exhausted
what the hell's difference anyway
when it comes to the here and now
and the work that precedes play

smoking genie coughs up a lamp
the coffee cup grows damp
and the eyes roll on the stormy river
doing nothing for the neck cramp

imagination is ketchup for perspiration sandwiches
match box memories of unjustifiably released witches
i'm typing, but numbness can hardly betray
the freedom i live for, but not here, not today