Your lips, dry blood and thin bone fingers
I fear of I sleep I will dream of you again
I will awake in that same cold air
In thick heavy armor
My sweat cold against my skin
A drop rolls down my neck
As I open the same door

The runes carved on the door
Seemingly, by fingernails
All covered in dust and cobwebs
Beyond the window the dark of the yard
Her scream through the window
With her teeth and nails barred at my throat
The knife in my boot
I jabbed at a kidney and felt the blade go through
As smoke

She’d tell you
which group of stars

were what
in the evening sky

as you stood outside
the church after

choir practice
of a Friday night

and her finger
would lift up

and point it all out
and her words

would drift
on the night air

like cigarette smoke
and you held onto

her every word
as she spoke

not for what she said
of night sky

or constellation of stars
but for the sound

of her voice
how it disturbed

the universe
made the deadly silence

less deadly
how they could bring

you in close to her
could embrace you

as she did
when no one

was looking
or you were both alone

some place standing
or sitting face to face

and that particular night
as she pointed up

and out
her other hand

grabbed yours
in the evening dark

and gave a squeeze
and hold

and then let go
how deep

that love was back then
is hard to figure

but love it was
you know.

On a Wednesday night, I think of you.
You’re my grandmother’s type of girl.
Your kindness reminds me of my grandfather
and he would’ve told me to take good care of you.
“Be all for her,” he told me in a dream last night
when I drew myself up sketched out
next to you.

And I know that you’re a good girl.
I swear I do.
You’re in your bed, off your feet,
the cushion is empty next to me.
The ice melts in the malt and I salt
these pity wounds.

Honey, was I the wine when you wanted rye?
Baby, does my tongue lick a changing mind?
You pour from my fingers in a fall,
sky turns black out my window and kids scream.
You consume every corner of my mind,
but I don’t mind.

So be balanced, if that’s what you have to do,
but lean my way.
Thoughts of you comfort me ‘til break of day.

He knows where he is at.
His while t-shirt clings to his sweat soaked skin
and he waits for another chance to waste his breath
on the walking skeletons.

He walks outside with a hole in his umbrella
to wash away the salt from his arms
but to protect his face from the water
to make sure the walking skeletons know he was crying earlier.

When the sky falls,
he will catch the pieces in his mouth
like he did during winter.
He will recite his opinions on why he should die
in front of the walking skeletons,
while he slowly loses his skin himself.

Looks like its back
Back to beer bottles
Back to juke boxes
That won't play David Bowie
No matter how much I ask

Just when I thought I was a real boy
My strings tangled
And I fell flat on my face
Another walk home
Drunk
It's great to live out in the boondocks
Not a soul to bother
I can lay out in the stars
And smoke cigarettes
And write poetry
Sometimes I ***** out loud to god
But really
Who am I to whine
Ive worked hard
To be able to play my own David Bowie records
As loud as I want
With the front door wide open
Laying in the lawn
Singing along
Singing along

you wear the thick glasses



and the plaid shirt


and i see you at the library all the time

with your plastic coffee cup



your stomach overflowing

with art



we could be sisters
if you weren't such a stuck up *****

ha ha ha