an ill-advised chapter

hips twitching
to the fine-grained beats
of sand
smacking the bottom
of my plastic hourglass
singing of time wearing thin
these melting masks of 4am meaning

and belonging
is a state of mind that resides
on the left coast
of my once lush hemisphere

where signs of please,
walk on the grass
were prominent and inviting
have now become
coney island run down
and faded
jaded by filler years of abscess
and duress, not success
or love

once millions of colors, now
only 18 bits
and pieces of the collage left over;
when placed on top of one another
make up my very own
flip book –
with a cheesy plot
and no dialogue;
gasoline highs
and
$200 a day habit lows

meandering through ill
advised chapter
(after chapter); falling
for every novel device
ever put to the page
just waiting, waiting
for a brilliant way
to end it all