Everything's a ******* square.
My journal.
The rich kid crackers.
My pillows, safe as they are.
Some are seam-stretched,
manipulated by a team of God and tired hands
a more desirable something,
thrown away just the same.
My parents.
My head.
The entire visionary sidewalk-gray sky,
as down is up for most, my neck associated with.
It wraps itself a ballooned cube, square faces
to be pinned over themselves by shapely oceans and unwitting gulls.
******* annoying gulls.
I fed one a firework once
the kind you throw at your sister and it pops on her
and she cries, illogical from her eye sockets in
steeped in the terror of the 9/11 on her swimsuit.
Snatched, exploded
Feathery tears rained,
a little less illogical.
I'm vegetarian now.
No relation.