A Concern of Knives

When I pass from view
all that will be left
is my debt
and guitars,
stringwound bound
with coagulated
blood.
That's the only way
I know how to play it;
index sanding my first
finger into the notes.
Here in this hiding city
I sell my time
to a concern
lined with knives.
Each day
I remember to come back
from gentle oblivion
to this pincushioned
dumbshow.
Why?
My mind and I
marionette stagger
through
the obsequious
hours.
We know ennui
and it counts out
our
ruined pennies.
Roll the calendar girl
pages
and you will
animate
the fading
of my smile.
I can't believe
all of the things
each year brings.
Why?
Ant hill dung beetles
march into the temple
of paper,
gelded eyed and blue.
This is the way
we taste the bit and yoke
under the rolled over sun.
Why?