Birds broken loose under couches
roasting spits on regional traps,
granddad beat her senseless on the crane handle
that was his arm. Back spinal snaps--fingers are numb--without the ability
to see her pleasure.

I hooked myself when I hooked her.
          Right answers look at you
          straight
          down
          the
          scope

I don't wanna die
I don't wanna die

"You are a soldier! Now man up and find your hand."
She may never come back
but maybe neither will you...

Germs crawling over your bodies, your tack hammers
blemished by petrified daisies

that told stories to their children about crazy ancestors
whom outlived what was expected.

Afraid of the lake roofs beaming headlights
off immature consciences
burrowing wicked roots.
She is sweet and frost on the hood of cars I've never seen.

Libra eyes
returning the music from the 1990's—strung on trot lines
catching loves from last summers
in love letters.
With all the fine burdens
****** markers provide trying to find a lost person
can give—I miss that pause we get when we look at stars

Last week we bought a bottle of epilepsy to share
at a party made to crash on dinner plates
rolling down uphill battles.

The clustering warm anticipation set to pounce falls short
with talks of who is late and who can't make it
because someone in the family disapproves.
Who cares about the bitter salt cakes in the dust of fossilized crustaceans?
The polar bears march to beautiful, pointless noise beating off the living receptacles.

The locals are scars in the conclusions deep in the visiting sounds—almost forgot but still murmuring.
*The first citizens of noise.

Sugar skull rabbits reproduce in peace like Novocaine
the sun took to die in peace.
This is spring mortars, exploding shells, shrapnel shot—the new breach of day
A wedding in a box,
a perfect day to conquer fate.

Plump naked bodies foil to the size of rhubarbs quaking
in surprise snow hurting itself by creating new life.
Impregnated with granite disciples—the snow always returns for its own.

Consume that last toxic morsel my child
and be king for the rest of your apple on the ground.

A smear of a dead roach
like the talons of a hawk
perches over a closest

locked.

Printer ink, moist black
oyster in a cocoon
--of pastel sub-plots

More touch
           --more touch
Less ***
          --less ideas.

Balance should be the advertisement
                           on
            our caffeine eyeballs