what god spoke
first passed through its mind
but from its heart.
this is where we were born.

i lay my body to sleep.
my heartbeat sounds like its
trying to tiptoe across my pillow.
it must think that im dead
and its trying to leave.

the burned down cafe
on the edge of the town
of the schizophrenic daydream.

customers are characters.
pour themselves into cups.

the liquid

shows the portrait

of the souls.

every day
a small slice of skin
from you
to cloth
the family
of passed out skeletons
smoking and shooting drugs
in your home,
while you stay up all night
drying out
in your closet.

a table of mannequins
enjoying a bowl
of plastic fruit.

with their glass eye,
watching the fake flowers grow.

i walk in the room,
in the fashion of skin,
starving for beauty,
and am reminded
     of why i was
     excommunicated.

my hands now
are the chipped
and broken wings
of the giant moth
i held
when i
was a child.

words
tend to become lost
in poetry.

poetry tends to become
lost in
thought.

thought tends to become
words.