What a time to be alive.
I've felt your pulse
through your palms,
a vibrato lengthened
through your fingers as they
strum up the stem of my spine,
my bones a-clatter,
my flesh a-flutter-
a slight bloom in your
warm hands-
what a time to be
alive.

I  keep a green cup between the
legs of my nightstand and the
mints of my wall,
and at night after I tuck edible things
out of my dresser's pockets
and into my mouth
and then again, into the open spout of my green cup
because mine never seems to know
how to retain any
form of sustenance:
I let it all spill from me and then
I lay back into the ruffles of my blanket,
rancid scents spilling through the air-
I'm breathing new again-
and my eyes fill as my body won't,
and I just waste
all over

i wear my baseball cap backwards
so that everyone around me
can see all of my
half-way decent face
and then I pin
paraphernelia
in the shape of buttons
all around its duck-bill mouth so that
everyone around me
that doesn't care
knows that I care
about
  something,
if not
  everything.
and in due time
I lose some things
that surrounds my head:
the people, the relics.
Safety pins unfastening
from its worn fibers,
and fluttering
behind my arched back.
My mind,
therefore there is no
organic thought
vomitting through me although
arguably,
I very well might be thinking in
my purest form,
and so I settle in that comfort,
leaving behind a trail of buttons
so that everyone around me
that doesn't care about anything knows that
I can be just like them.

I don't know which I'm most annoyed by:

Those who are afraid of titles
or
Those who are in love with titles.

You laugh because
you know it isn't funny.

I watch because I know
you need me to keep on caring.

I'd rather wear my heart
on my sleeves
then let it rest within the
swamps of my chest-
at least then
I know what my heart
is up to.