you had this many broken bones
like that time i left for an hour (because
i was learning to work some never fractured fingers
over black and white tabs) and came back
to find you in a chair, clutching your arm
like it was some project of masking tape and tongue depressors,
imitating architecture, as though it might fall apart at
any second. and i wondered what it was
to have my calcium I-beams snap under my skin. was there
a feeling, a radiator that burned against bones
comfortably, when the edges glued themselves back?

you broke your arm last week because you
fell out of a tree, because
you are a ten year old boy. when the bone
cracked you cried and were loud as a howler monkey
when he can't find any fruit to eat. but now
you have your cast on, and you are dangerous and
cool. there is a fire of adventure kindled
in your eye, right? you will tell the story about
how you had to use magazines and rubber bands
to hold your arm in place, before you could get
to the doctor (don't tell them your dad set the makeshift
splint for you. don't tell them how you sobbed
through the entire car ride). you can do anything now,
daredevil. weren't they jealous when Christine cooed over how brave
you are, when you pointed out the branch that you fell from? (they
don't need to know you fell off the lowest branch)
she's your girlfriend now, because you are so brave, but
she will only kiss you on the cheek, because you are a boy.
you are hot **** (you learned to curse when your father
exclaimed a new vocabulary when he saw you fall). don't tell them
you fell out of the tree because you slipped on
some rotten bark, and if they find out? the worms wriggling
inside the dead wood attacked you like a more potent
hydra than the one you learned about in class.

his bulbous eyes stared and clamored.
they bulged like cartoon animals do when
a fist throttles them. we hurried past him
because he told us something about nineteen eighty-five
and what if he has a knife in his coat?
the blue and yellow neon lights bathed his face
in commercial light and illuminated
his anguish. he didn't have any money, probably
because those men stole it from him when he was sleeping.
you know the ones he talks about - their suits are always
clean. we hurried past him, and his caffeine eyes
finally went to sleep even though his addled brain
prayed for consciousness. the suits would come to him in the night
and fill him with drugs again.

by my window, a fir tree didn't know that
we cut off a branch. the gleeful hum of

a chainsaw in a cherry picker droned
with the rhythm of an obnoxious dirge.

the branch popped off like a lego cowboy's
arm and hit the ground with a thud, like a sack

of potatoes or a coconut. the fir tree didn't
feel as sweet honey poured like blood

from its armpit. the only first aid was the heat
from the spinning blade that cauterized the wound

and sticky sap, a bandaid of resin. the pine cones
didn't know that their brothers and sisters fell with the branch.

a fir tree by my window still tries to scratch at the pane
during windstorms. but this device of Edgar Allen's

got chopped off. if this fir tree stays drunk on its
honeyed blood, it won't notice that it has lost an arm and it

will stay strong and merry, so that we can
chop it down and dress it up for christmas.

it is dark, in here. and there are
drips of acid to break down creatures.
is that one of them, the fawn with white spots
becoming a ***** as drips drop?

the walls of this cavern are
a fleshy criss cross of a kitchen sponge (soaked
in yesterday's dinner) and a tight strip
of rubber.

if the beast opens its lips and shows the pine trees
that root themselves in enormous gums
(needles pierce the inside of the demon's mouth
and spread a sickly green all over) then the light spills in.

who taught you to growl when
we tried to climb up the tendons of your throat,
to shake us with a thunderstorm of bass
back into the ugly pit?

there was no mother that could love
this beast. so it kept us forever
amid soaking carcasses of last year's supper.
(vocal chords rumbled) and we know we are small
and we can't climb through the forest of teeth.
so we might as well stay forever and give
this beast our love.

i broke two necks tonight, because
chicken soup doesn't make itself.
i snapped bobbing necks with pitiful
***** of skin beneath pointed beaky chins,
scrawny, feathered twigs. you
halved sticks with fingers that were vices
stripped them naked, pale
brown wood, shivering under your fingerprints.
i am not noticing this anymore. chicken
necks are starting to feel like twigs. snap
snap snap

the whiskey burned my bones dry (they
were soaked by rain) and
the whistle of many voices stammered
in my ears and cleaned out the rattle
in my head (it was shaking a frantic
rhythm). that rattle was a death
rattle of drenched bones, clicking
clacking against each other (there's my
many wrist bones and my teeth
dancing on my shins) the toy of a small lump
or a baby. or a frightened snake. a rattle
rattle (i'm tired) that keeps me awake
but distracted from other thoughts.