My neck is cricking and so are the crickets outside.
The bike rack shuffle, the dance of the bars and wheels.
The knuckles dancing- mini solos and bold duets?
Cars driving by, up in my room, so fluid, so loud.
Hard to swallow, gravel chunks bouncing off the waterfall throat.
Sticky fingers, itchy ears.
No similarity- just parts of the process.
The marriage.
The system.
Massive zits and oddly placed hickeys.  
Misplaced zits and famous hickeys.
Hickets.
**** water, stubbed toe.
NO MORE LISTS!
No bruises, no needles and pins.
But what is poetry without listing?
Words that work and form and portray, nothing gray-
Light and beauty and all that is write about the word.