tuning

little bird sitting on the top of the tree,
the sky is blue.

smash my guitar. 
shattered wood. 

so softly it weeps.
i could tear the cords out, 

find the bones in my fingers
on six, suppliant wires.

what's wrong is i drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes

some days i wake,
& my heart is a pound, pound, pound

so i say,

it was the coffee last night and just general unwellness of being and

my wet charcoal breath says,
you 

are still drunk, so i say
poetry, didja save me?