The snow fell a little late
we're both primates
let's get a little warmer while we jirate
at this rate, I'm a pirate

plundering a briney wet shipwreck
paycheck
set it on fire
the doctor gos next
cold again legs up, you know best

but god you're so gorgeous
we're at it again
doc walks in
gives a look like
"well now i know what brought you in"

count back from ten
it goes in,
the needle
not my friend.
well it might have been
count back from ten
3
2
thoughts storm in, it's bran
oatmeal
pop a pill again
you pop the pill again
I pop the pill again
You stop bleedin
I stop bleedin'
we stop feedin' our clocks
silence the tick tock
with rocks
I start bleedin'
you start bleedin'
we see him again

Psychic type with no
Emotional energy?
Abra fled; no spoons.

There was a time
I opened my computer in highschool
Searching my browser for you-tube for the first time.
I opened the website for U2
The band.

It was not for another month I discovered the video search engine that is so engrained into our culture today.

I saw a 5 year old navigating you-tube today.
They were watching a cat be abused and giggling.

I wonder when curiosity died.
Perhaps after it killed the cat.

I once saw a winter tree
With **** skewered on each branch
Next to the road
In the front lawn
Of my elementary school crush.

I once melted a coil of her hair
On a lightbulb
In her attic
I still remember the smell.

I do not remember the smell of the tree
I imagine it smelled like ****.

I once watched return of the jedi

On a pulled out futon mattress
While my elementery school crush
And her two younger sisters
Explored each others bodies.

I ignored them.
I also ignored Carrie Fisher losing her entire planet.

Instead I watched their mother lose a game of majong on her dusty grey computer moniter.

She then sold some of the hoarder stash lining their walls on ebay.

This is where I learned to observe.
Being a fly in the tar pit is more honest then
Being a fly on the wall.

I do not remember the smell of starwars

I imagine it smells a lot like a woman
losing a game of majong.

I imagine it smells a lot
like sweat
and tears.

How like my father
To turn to religion
Like an heirloom
One of the two things he left me
Faith, and
Cologne

You were born bone
I became tattoo
flesh tethered your scaffolding
Under my beautiful scars

Thin paint, Stinging red
Constellations of wings
Left them with fingernails
Your soft shoulderblades
snug under pale skin

A bit lip tease soft blonde hairs one by one
Down tips underneath
the divet in your neck.
I admire the canvas of your spine back to me, all red wing stinging.
Ready to fly off
Moving thigh and held
Shifting maroon blankets.
My mouth smirks
Attempts to hide how desperate
To taste it is.

Sweet bird. Sweet angel.
Awake all night
With a tattoo of an arrow
And her hand
Pressed to her forehead.

A glass of water.
Towel held like a childs blanket.
Still white.
Even used, it is still fresh linen smell.
We are still fresh linen smell.
Your hipbones agree.
My thumbs asked them.

I kiss your feathers gentle and let them burn softly as I trail down.

Your whimpers send me skyward.
Lighter headed now
Tight cheeked.

More rustled blanket
Your thigh dances over hipbones.
I feel the tethers between bone and canvas
Scar and silk.
Warm in these wings
Stars in this constellation.