Phantom posture cocked
its spear and stuck it
to another friend
like an unglued Quasimodo

The incense of a level-headed fate
tosses its burn from one context
to another

breath
consumption
sarcasm

And all that remains
are matchstick stumps as clues
to the promise of origins

birth
a dance
and a sprain

Feral intimations of mortality
eating on bonds like rust

And I can't even ask
for a turn without knocking
on the ignorance-enforced door
of self-promotion

Violation via Wolverine caress

Feel-good stories
strip-searched
by a generation *****
for conspiracy theories