My soles are wet, or at least one
is.
I have played in the puddles
too much
and eaten the rain
until even the lopsided clouds
have gotten sick of me.

How have you found one,
one droplet
for
one fire?

How have you found one
dimple in space
and laid down like a child
and given birth
without oxygen?

How have you found one?
one of everything
in one of one thing?

How have you found one,
even in decay
as you walk in my pain as a vagrant?

****
a love jones,
or some
Tyler Perry *******.

I want a chick that pulls knives out on me and jokes while she's doing it, because that's how we joke around.

A knife
like:
"You're not the kind of man I thought you were
when we first met.

Pulling out knives
and
putting little dimples
of love
into
each other.

The first time
I saw a ******
I saw it in the open legs
of a smouldering woman
pockmarked by bullets,
and her curly black
hair
was pink
with brains like worms.

Her knees shook
spasmodically
like spider's
when you smush
them under your thumb.

The first time
I saw and
held a gun,
I yanked it from my father's
eternal fingers.

His head was open too,
and it buzzed
in a black rain of flies.

They were shooting,
and little plumes
of dust
exploded all around my feet.

Whizzing, Banging, a roar
of warfare, and I burned myself;
the shells kept falling against my skin
as I held that AK
squeezing
and falling
as the gun
pow'd
and recoiled.

Little bubbling lakes of skin
hurt my arms for days.

I loved you,
in a way that teenagers aren't supposed to love.

I loved you in a hard way.

"I can't be with someone who can just do that to someone else, that isn't love or trust."

And i broke.

I broke like a machine.

Woke up
steel.
Feeling parts
screaming.
Circuits
zapping, zipping
almost
jumping.
Heart
thumping,
then stopping,
thumping.

Know
that I cannot lose you easily;
you are not my apartment keys
or a mango;
you are
an ID
or a stranded muse;
I am a number waiting to be laminated
or a boat with
blue bedsheets for sails;
I will sell what will get me to you;
blue bedsheets for sale
and photocopiers
in overstock.

Wild Turkey doesn't get wasted
here, not today;
I've had too much
too fly,
I'm just a man
with a little peice of my heart
left to use
for consumption,
so when I put my soul
into you, I sweated
a lot from that little peice;
It'd been
putting on about 100 pounds of weight
lately;
but I lost about thirty pounds
and a suitcase
since you've gone away; I feel
that thirty pounds and
that **** suitcase
found me sitting here
and pulled out a peice
and tickled me
at the airport bar,
a muzzle ******* at my ribs
as I sat watching
the planes
take off;
I am right beside the avenue of windows
and look
like a dark spot against the sun,
I think:

"I want to blow up a million planes
because
I'd hate for you to be able to fly
and put your pinky on me,
I'd hate for you to be able to point
and shout:

"THERE HE IS, RIGHT THERE,
DON'T YOU SEE EM?
HE LOOKS SO STUPID DOWN THERE,
HE MUST BE CRYING."

And I sweat more,
shaking off
pounds by the gallon
until I feel the muzzle of the gun
less and less,
and the apparition finally evaporates
in a sizzle
and
it becomes just an oil spot
I could wipe away
with a thumb
and saliva.

I sober up
enough
to fly again
and not **** myself
when I pass out.

I'm paying for the ****,
leave me alone
and let me sleep.

"You're not just here for yourself,
Mr. Willis,
you're here for your classmates,"
Mr. **** said.

"I'm here to get a degree."

"Well, I'm sorry"

Yea, "Well",
now get your *** out my face
and let me sleep...