Do the Prometheus

Party lights swirl the misty bar like nightmare pancakes
Visceral beaters turn tables on LED piped sweat drains,
Lacing bar graffiti, buzzing Chicago Handshakes. Pinocchio
Becomes a real boy when his woody sticks out.
Honest benchwarmer for the dance floor catches fire with the pen, and
One empty stomach churns more booze than batter for the rest.
Vertigo in Butoh form, internalized— he judders a pen.
Head stopping heart in the hands of the city, Metropolis
Built from no escape. Flashes of Rainbo bars and Random Rules
Summon Kendrick to my brow, Mos Def be one with my stout — my handy tool.
Madvillain, my looseleaf act, grafts Primal Screams onto my “cool.”
In a sea of aggregate egos, the convex mouth irrigates my spool
Toward smooth talk swishing Old Style swing.
This woman's smile moves my fingertip like a Polygraph without intent,
Made delinquent by the present. Witch the Hour:
For now, I’ll put the pen down.
Give me dinner where I fade,
Take my liver when I’m laid.