let me watch

Ring the Buzzer
by Jackson Grind

i always arrive with an entourage
of wise men
who converse only of compromised morals
and sexual undertones
and ask "what else is there to speak of?"

women who accessorize
with neon bags
and empty glasses frames
swallow my pride
and indulge the vanity
which i choke down for every meal
and chase with something stiff
on the rocks

i exit through a trap door
to suit my idiom
and the angel on my shoulder
hasn't paid rent in years