I want to knock out all your teeth
with airborne nuggets of wisdom.
I want your empty gums to bleed
with pain and hatred and progress.
I want you to cut your hair off,
collect the locks, and throw
them at the trees in the afternoon,
for sanity's sake,
and I want the clouds sunk
into your head to spell
out like an airshow,
"I am Real, Valid, and going
to die."

Sometimes sitting straight up
in bed has its purpose,
pulling the blanket to the floor
and humming all those songs
without words, it's like therapy,
like rest, like wood.
The Lord will find his face
formed in your gnarls,

and he will cry.
He will say he loved you
since the beginning, since
you pierced your nose,
and that it doesn't matter
that you look down more
often than ahead, and that
your sighs grow flowers
at your feet.