Crimson Couches

Monoliths sit metal-faced, stacks of staples
Pierced into the fabric of the night
And gleaming with the bright squares of existence
We are cut by the glass edges of population
The zipping silver crowns of cars
While splitting the streets
And slitting open the stomach of cities
We are let loose down the pants of America
Sent spiraling into pinwheels with the relentless bass thrum of engine breath
Lost between the hotels with geometric carpeting that tries not to offend
Their mirrored hallways defracted by bells
Dusty draperies hung like the garments of tired shopkeepers
We grab at the fabric of each thirsty sky with wavering eyes the way the homeless
Grab at the fabric of passersby
We are the debutants tearing across the surface of the world
The golden girls who swing their legs around like their lives
Grasping onto the filaments of the universe
That is blown away like hair.