this my lonely tower with no one in it.  this the soup as it burns the tongue of a man on stilts.  this my boy’s breath in a cup of snow.  this the thorn of a mother’s depth.  this my patch of artificial grass.  this the melancholy itch of a traveling hand.  this my lowest number of dead.  this the high brother who cries in a satellite named for his *****.  this my drug use.  this the videocassette from god’s garage.  this my cloud of discontinued muscle.  this the pink hammer with matching nail.  this my mouth on a snake-bitten snake.  this the quote.  hell is a fire sale.