She wrote a line 
about drawing a line 
an inch from his shoulder blades.

She wrote a line 
about stepping over 
the teethmarks her father made.

She wrote a line 
that said **** lines 
and broke them with a comma.

She wrote a line 
that said blood 
and nothing besides.

I’m a running kind of guy
Hopping through Bombay smoke with an open palm grasping
every cloud with my fingertips gripping
Nothing but air a
Fine man photographing
Tequila sunrises to send to his beloved waiting
Endlessly by the shore and he just
Can’t see why her phone is dropping drenched
Like his throat
(he only drinks when he wants to)
When the right time strikes never
Checks the time unless the hands hold wine and
Light his cigarette
A normal ****
Bumming rides and piling nickels thinking
The essence is different if
Spelled in french a
Running freight train aiming
For the hill for
Mullholland where
No one knows his name he’s
Alive kicking and
Screaming raging
Through the night and
Crying in the morning when
He lies sweaty and
Watches the sun rise says
**** *** to his shadow
And turns around
Just an *******
Enjoying his ****** life

Dreams are polka dotted at Walmart they say.
And though this is true they do not taste sweet but
Acidic like those
Models plastic like
Paris's **** you
Know what I mean the
Stringy ******* and diet
Coke **** diet
Coke and oil in bottles we are no machines whatever
Happened to green leaves and sun burned skin our
Words and tattooed bones when
Did we become dumpsters dressed in
Black
Or silk chemically nourished and fashionably
Stern **** fashion and
You too your
Oversized coat and
Brainwashed **** we
Need to start dreaming of
Creations in the night in
Every string of hair and
treacherous stem I hate
Bleached hair and red lips more than I
Hate Bloomberg
Oh ***** my smoked breath
I’m lying again and
So is he and
You and
Those polka dotted dreams.

When in Charleston you
eat fried pickles
drink cheap and
pass out a
few feet from where you
gave your heart
to an island girl
a girl who wrinkled her nose as
a sign and said she once saw
children
painting the grass red like
my eyes before she
****** the fireball from
my lips and spat it out like tobacco

you look undamaged she said
before she turned my forearm
and licked the scars
as I wondered how chest bones open
and how to give what is already
torn like
communist pamphlets
but she scratched my cheek
leaned her head on my words
I can twist my legs around a branch
and walk on my hands she said
what makes you think I won't walk miles to twist them around you?

I'm a running kind of guy
Hopping through cigarette smoke with an open heart
Grasping every cloud with my fingertips
Gripping nothing but air

A fine man

photographing tequila sunrises to send to his beloved
Waiting endlessly by the shore
And he just can't see why her phone is dripping
Drenched like his throat
(He only drinks when he wants to)
When the right time strikes
Never checks the time unless the hands hold wine
And light his cigarette

A vagabond

Some would say
Bumming rides and stealing nickels
Thinking the essence is different
If spelled in French

A running freight train

Aiming for the hill
for Mulholland
where no one knows his name
He's alive
kicking and screaming

Raging through the night

And crying in the morning
When he lies sweaty
And watches the sun rise
Says **** *** to his shadow
And turns around

Just an *******

Enjoying his ****** life.

As his eyes bled the pain from out his ribs, cracked by my words harsher than the wind biting his wet cheeks, I smiled at the image of my face reflected in his tears.

As he walked away, his feet scraped the gutter as the knife still in between his bones, left to rest until his mother's warmth has melted the steel, her spirit embosomed it with millions of breaths reviving his flesh.

I watched him go, my body shivering as my mouth preparing chants of scorns meant to burn every broken heart passing by my wicked tongue Glowing, glowing as the God it believed it had become.

In bed, I stuck the knife into my own soul, my body trembling at the scent of my blood drained before my eyes
Sobbing, sobbing at the sight of my ribs never healing in the absence of my mother's arms.

I yelled to the roof staring back in silence, clanging out the pain stuffed in the son of my sorrow,
the son,
my throat,
exhaling every raging letter ever thrown in my face by fellow men,
by friends,
by a world,
savaging my soul before I had time to realize it was mine.

Why, I ask the shadow laughing from the floor,
why are we raised to believe that words like knives will save our minds while wonders and beautiful nights will destroy our lives? That only hard skin and harder tongues can survive in the concrete sky, kindness only leading to an early grave where no one will wish you farewell for your heavenly stay.

The shadow laughed.
The roof kept quiet.
I left the knife where it belonged, shoved through bones into a broken heart,
hoping it's tears made up for his lost blood. The stone will remain in of the son of my sorrow until my tongue's wickedness turns to dust in the beautiful night.

I will keep crying, until the mouth reflected in my tears turns into a smile.
I will keep silent, until I learn how to pronounce kindness.