LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Charles Borkhuis

Blood Count

add it up and drop it
down upon the waves 
one wooden lacquered eye 
one sultry sanded hip
what she means to me
speaks deadly

a rush of fedoras
up her fine line
tipping the brims in sequence
that little rustle of leaves
licking the firmament
so slow

o opalescent moon
o hornet's breath
o upwardly mobile mirror
add it up and drop it
(one makes money
the other makes excuses)

a blush of safety in mumblers
the ventriloquist's longing
for a dummy to become me
the more iterated the story 
the bigger the lie

errant again stumbling
through the shiny rubble
roll back the hammers of the heart
the drumming of children
on hollow canisters
the sound of the dipstick
tapping in an empty tank

"I will be your number for the night"
she smiled but after a few steps
I heard the organ grinder's toothy suite
the jig of his monkey on a chain
add it up and drop it
in the blind man's cup