Glances in passing and nothingness,
I'll drop out and take up gardening.
And you are so cool, all German bred,
and sometimes braided. I see you, so
well-read and rather regal. ***** blonde
nuclear, alabaster, aluminum rods -
electricity dripping from the soles of
your shoes. This classroom, my own
ink blotted incubator, the radiator sits,
flatlining. Your jaw as two razor blades,
your shoulder blades, broad, gentle.

I wonder how you look in the morning,
How you look at yourself in the mirror.
Do you practice smiling, and
how often do you wash your hair? Oh,
you exist in glass, and I will not try to
know you. Leaving this poem limited,
and yet. Your jam drop mouth houses all
well-spoken soliloquies, radical requiems.

So, what would happen if we brushed
shoulders in passing? Your little accent.
Accident, we appeared in the same
huddled mass. Literary plugs in the
drain, and your new American. So,
why don't we just go walking on
airplane wings? Some transcontinental
affair. Frequent flyer *******, stranger.

I still have the scars on my ankle
From the day we got drunk in school

I have a few nights burned in my brain
I have some type of mind
That returns to a mountain girl
I make peace with bodies thought otherwise to be dead
I make no apologies for laughter in churches
And my throat was raw on the first day of spring

I miss flying high in that aeroplane
Where guitar strings did anything but strangle our hearts
I left the state
Just to play our soundtrack to a room full of strangers

Copper shines, reflecting images of refugees floating through mud waters on glass shards
Fire feels dull blood aches of healing ivory gun shot wounds
Professor locked himself inside his head after the fourth born had been buried

Headlines make my knees shake
There was a UFO sighting at the Dome of the Rock, but you were slap drunk in a tin foil book case
There was a UFO sighting at the Dome of the Rock, but you were crying salt for departed birds and card stock fingernails

Last Friday night was one for the books
All of the misplaced soul mates
Found their way home from college confines
We cried in the face of Iron
And drank victory Wine as a welcome to an amber Autumn morning
He filled his front pocket
With our smoked out cigarettes  

Caramel hops in the spilled beer
Glued our voices together
Remembering
Past deaths and all those other kids who left
Are we the survivors?
Finally free to laugh among our best friends
Ink is stabbed into our aging skin
To place a memory on this night
To place a memory in the shape of our swaying bodies
To place a memory in our minds of orange bottle caps and a love stretched too far across the map

Brush burns and bottle caps
Speak new words to the old pools
Carry on, carrion
Decay or flee the scene
Gasoline drinkers unite
And **** ourselves with
Cotton blend bed sheets
New born stitches
On the blood bridge of my nose
Glass breaks in the oven
Literary Societies keep the secrets
Of children grown
Of ice cube foreheads
Of drywall dinner parties
Coffee grounds on branches
God dammnit God dammnit

Eulogy singer
Blood bullets explode in my throat
Blood, ink, rusted piano keys
Church pews and surgical scars
Christmas feels like crying
I hope I don't die in Italy
Drinking ink on the bathroom floor
Everything was, but wasn't
It was white shoes, but off white, really
In love, but not
Warm water in the garage
A champagne bottle and a butcher knife
We drank in the streets, and no one got caught
Blood bullets on Main Street, everyone was drops of old beer
That time of year
Bullet holes in the headboard
Used, abused, we don't get to choose
Christmas felt like joy or melancholy or pine or something

Your arms are just two pieces collected from Saturn's rings
We're all made up as the same stuff as stars

I haven't felt this in a long while
That same old, beautiful teenage rebellion coursing through my twenty year old veins

Remember the grass we'd tread on during days of
Extracurricular activities all hungover and dread locked

Or the Saturday night in late September
When three girls first inched their way toward a mirror
In the thrift store and the coffee shop
Gourds and games and locking ourselves in the car to listen to that rust colored song
Amid the high school hoi Polloi
Three girls, still, getting closer to that mirror

There were books about the body in a Goodwill
About the diseases that afflict our tiny bones
And science hung from a rack while she put on an old mans sweater and fantasized about the death that could have taken place in each stitch

Catholic school boy bonfire
Doing donuts in the field because, well, life is a highway
And can you believe it? She hit her head again
Oh our blonde believer, knocking her brain out of her skull and onto the highway
While our other friends smoked secrets in the woods out past the driveway

When we parted from our dear doe eyed psychopath
And found ourselves a trifecta for the first time in months,
There was only one thing to do -
Admit there were robots among us, chug a beer, and say goodnight

This is the funeral dress that was stapled into my shoulders
And crucified
On the huge hill cross, where clowns once emerged from cotton smog -
Where bricks smashed foreheads, and we fingerpainted the sidewalk with each other's unruly blood
Where the Summer sleeps off a failed suicide attempt
Two years ago you put a hole in my head
But this is not the hole in my head (present and aching)
This is the black funeral dress I stapled into my own shoulders
The one that was worn too many days too soon
We are all infinitely bound between her death and a single desire for a boy with destructive ghosts living beneath his fingernails

I keep telling strangers about the way your jaw shakes after midnight
I keep telling strangers about the night I scattered glass shards in between my box spring mattress and the trundle bed
I keep telling strangers about your porcelain knuckles - the way you kiss each one individually before punching me in the throat
There's a rage inside my head
Disease spreads like forrest fire and floral secrets
Dead girls dance in October, rest in November
Goodnight

We can live together on
the hardwood floors of
my parents’ house, stay
up late, eating apples, and
sifting through pomegranate
sludge. Your beard will be
sticky, and my fingertips will
be cinnamon sugared, like
some candied catharsis,
and you can lick them clean.

Little infant Icarus, I will
turn you into constellations.
Rip you apart, spread you
across the sky, and pray hard
for clear nights.
Oh! the terrible things.
I make no apologies for
laughter in churches.
I am the forrest floor, and
I am a burning hill, and

I will not die for you.

And, for all intensive purposes,
I love you.

That night my head revisited the act of combustion
Fueled by cinnamon syrup and ten dollar wine
I caught fire under a false summer sky
We stole the Holy Father from the threshold of the devil's den
Lo-fi guitars sent us spinning back in time
The three of us became the opposite of a memory
We bent the solar system with glass bottle visits to our old favorite songs
There's a place I'd like to be
Half drunk in the fluorescent lights of a college town bus
There's a place I'd be happy
Carpet dancing with a trinity of alcoholic poets
That night was beautiful and Fall and fleeting
That night is my next favorite memory

You:
Text book Manic Pixie Dreamgirl, all blonde hair, blue eyes, and have you heard this song yet?
You call blood pomegranate sludge, and tattoo your toes with safety pins and spoiled ink.
Your freckles are corks, we understand, and your pain outweighs your grief.
You once found solace at the bottom of a bottle, now it lies crumpled in a lover's hand.
Bad kids! We were, but never bad enough for you.
Not twenty-five miles per hour, beer in hand, the sun is setting, we might not last till morning, but we'll go on driving anyway, bad.
You are cross-country dazzling, where-will-she-go-next? Paint brush lusting, vintage sweater.
You have spark plugs in your ears.

And so you'll sit,
Suspended on wires.
Strung across our
Darling country.
Resting on boyish charm
And
School day soliloquies.
Celtic claddagh knots -
Upside down and
Everything.

You can bleach your hair
Or cut it off with a butcher knife
All of this done by candle light,
In the middle of the night

Get him just drunk enough
On perfume liquors in the backyard
And whisper little things about
The parts of you made of glass

Trace his name across
Your open veins in vibrant reds
Mailing him dim lit photos
Of  scar tissue evidence

Crash your car into the drive-in movie screen
Think about how things could have been
If you never let it slip
That you dreamt of his top lip

I sit on my bedroom floor,
Sweating,
Contemplating chopping this mop from my skull.
Watching my strands fall to the floor,
And writing each one a four-chord goodbye song.
The junkyard dog alive in my back pocket
Whispers things like "he'll never love you anyway".

Now I've got
Blue hair.
Are you
Still there?

No, now you're dropping acid on the mountain top.

A barback slid you out
A generation early, in
The shape of your father.
He who befriended the
Blondest girl in town -
Elf-sheen baby, eternally mortal,
Entangled in bedsheets, or,
Everyone's Fantasy ****.
So she gifted you lawn rakes
And snack cakes, and you
We're raised in the bar on
Highway 51. Far from the
Vinyl static emitted from your
Mother's breast. She warned you
About The Suburbs. Always
Whispering tiny prayers -
Grab the keys, we're leaving.

And they keep dying on you -
Your matriarchal mirrors.
Leaving you in the hands
Of workmen scientists,
All waiting for the explosion,
The bomb to drop,
The neighborhood burn.

Grab the keys, we're leaving.

Pine Needle Spine Man
You housed our hollow heads.
Filled the vacancies
With ink and shouts and Magnetic Zeros.
It was the age of kissing wrists
and secret smoke.
Pulsing plastic bottle poison
Wrote Om Nashi Me on my neck,
So we never had to check
If anyone was still breathing,
Because of how hard our blistered hearts were beating,
And our songs raged, wreathing.
Some nights beneath the blades,
we claim we can’t recall
But fossils were burned into our shoulders,
and I know we felt them all.

Pine Needle Spine Man
We strung you up with lights
The fistful of blonde hair
Had those ****** knuckle fights
With the dead letter secrets
In the ribbon spit trunk,
Dipped our hands in *** and balsam
We sunk into the drunk.
Blast beats, we’d
Retreat.
It was a world gyrating in slow motion.
Dancing on the mulch beds,
We hovered high on reckless rebellion.
Our feet rejected the floor,
But ghosts were moving into our cores.
It was all golden rod and the 4-H stone,
Sarah Jones and the radio wars.

When they cut you down,
We washed your hair with wine.
Found our cigarettes hidden
In the notches of your spine,
And drank what was left
Of the Rabid Bits of Time.

There you go again,
Sprinting through 300 and some days,
On your way to find the time machine.
Twenty years spent trapped inside a
Toy chest featuring constricted breaths.

I'm sorry that any of us ever got older than eighteen.

If I can find a way
To claw deep enough into my mind
I swear I can reverse time
Go back to a picture
Of a curly haired boy in forest green
Before we knew what growing up would be
We could hate our parents' choices under string light ribbon trees
Share secrets in smokey backyard plywood sheds
Drive home and feel the sky pierce through our chests and
Maybe I could even draw your neck on my arm
With all the shadows that used to hit it in the concert hall
Maybe if we time things perfectly -
Go back to the high school parking lot, football field, basement
Things would be exactly as they were
I don't want to forget what you looked like when maybe you loved me
Everything is your memory -
Plaid shirts and yarn wrapped wrists
Christmas lights and ****** knuckles
***** and frosted windshields
Everything goes from yesterday to a year ago then two

We all imagine Sylvia in a different way
Burning her captor's notes and coats and handwritten books in the backyard
Or
Beneath the house where she was revived by dirt and coal and a lesser god's spite
Or
Nine years old at a funeral band jam for the not so **** father man

Not love, but pitchers of honey
Not ***, but The Death of the Clock
Not marriage, but midnight's blood
Not children, but oven obsessions - adulterous predecessors

Rub my eyes to smear the tar
My professor teaches careful writing
I will go to my grave defending the fact that writing is reckless
And I don't care to surround myself with those lacking a rebel call

I lost my mind in Tennessee
Too drunk to even sing

If sleep is rehearsal for death -
These songs are the soundtrack of our demise

There was a mistake made in
the Bible, and you weren't there.
The beautiful and the sublime.

There's a song in my bones and
you're singing it! We step into the
blender, and switch clothes at noon.
When the sun set, we were in
bed together. Four newborn babies:
I hallucinate the destruction of a calendar.

Bottles of wine in the grass, and
this has been the very best day!
I kiss my friends with an infected
throat, and no one minds, and we
just go on eating grapefruits.

Sticky fingers, your car was almost
stolen, and here, I swear -
you'll never have to cut your hair.

I hear people ice skating on the roof
I met you at the water fountain two years ago today

Two Falls ago
We went on a bear hunt
And I held your hand
Over a broken girl
We spoke of God in the woods
And the trees stole our dead letter secrets

Two Falls ago
We were all sixteen
Maybe less, maybe a little more
Leaves floated in pavement rivers
On homecoming and Halloween
Smoke filled a laundry room, we burned the rug with homemade cigarettes

Two Falls ago
I wore wool socks in your driveway
And stayed up with you all night
We slow danced under blankets in your plywood shed
I saw my best friends everyday
And drank stolen liquor with them most nights

Everything was Golden rod & the 4H Stone
Everything was red and pulsing
Everything was mattresses and staircases
Everything was Sarah Jones and Radio Wars
Everything was bonfires and lasting

Everything was all of us,
screaming and
laughing and
singing and
crying and
Together - under dizzy skies and dying leaves in Fall

I always thought you looked like Frank O’hara.
(That is, after seeing a picture of Frank O’hara last night).

And we both have crooked noses,
So why don’t we just have a baby?
Force feed it poems and dip its hands in food coloring,
We can play muted guitar and watch the infant insect dance.

I will continue to refuse to die for myself,
And live with you at arm's length.

Something old:
Our talks around tables, hidden behind paper bags
Laughter and the lack of lacking it
Something new:
This strange place, lacking every particle of us
The cold campus covered in facts
A realization that poetry is just a constant occurrence of hand references
Something borrowed:
The way you pronounce my name, just slightly off
I've been introducing myself that way lately
Something blue:**
My suffocating hands
And crippled heart

There was a time you threw a party
And forgot Joanna's birthday
And went raging down the river
With your next best boyfriends
Left our baby bird stranded in the nest
Dropped acid and showed some chest

There was a time the boy you claimed to love
Had to beg for your attention
And you wouldn't pick up the phone
Even when you were carving things all alone
And a time when we went to a concert
And we rushed you home to rage with
All those new and improved mountain kids

There was a time you called me crying
Screaming songs about leaves and
For a night You Missed that Band
And through heaves you recalled
A night spent on a razor's edge
Thrift stores and throats raw
The old September
And you promised to call Joanna
And no surprise, you never did

Deities die, babe,
But I didn't dare to
Predict your demise.

My head hurts, and
It's unseasonably warm.
I read that a concussion
Can cause mild depression.

But what if I was mildly depressed to begin with?

And on that first night,
In the movie theater
I cried because I knew
You'd break my bones
Crack my chest and tattoo
My little heart with a drawing
Of your neck.
And when we got stuck in the mud
Driving home from the show,
It was all wonderstruck dirt
Gravel hands and
I stood in front of your
Headlights - deliberate illusion,
Creating a vision that went without notice
It was my own fault, getting involved with anyone but a mortal.

Bite my fingertips till they callous
Or better yet, bleed.

And why don't we go walking on airplane wings?

Life is a death march, and we pass
The time making cave drawings.

***** baby beats.
Pumps red through my tiny head,
And into the walls.

Weekend Warriors in face paint, remember?
Home caught fire and we danced on the
pavement. Tambourine shakes and tattered
blouses, please don't go away! Christmas
light canopy in the secret woodland electric
tree. We raged and swore we'd never leave.
All running toward homemade, handmade
radio waves. It tasted like some thick fruit
bowl and ***** poison - anything but
Still Life. Those brush strokes were shaking,
and I love you beneath theses branches,
and you and you and you and you and really -
please don't go away.

At 5:00 am
We  take on the identities
Hidden beneath the car seats
All nauseous guilt
And sunrise afterthoughts
Your fingers shake while the
Fire takes its place in the sky
And you've been up all night
Deciding which way he'll break your heart this time
But it's not a certain someone's fault
How we belong to no one
The same way no one belongs to us
And everything built on or around an amen or hallelujah

Delusions set in with the dawn
Like am I sleeping or dead
And I make big plans to string lights
On the porch
Like one glimpse at Christmas and my mouth goes magnetic

Rachel bleached her hair to
Mark the end of something silver -

To counteract the epitaph

An eternal "I was here, and I didn't want to leave"

It all washed up on shore, dead
The same summer most of us
Gave up on God and gave into one another
Or those saints found below the belt

Death is not the color black
It's water growing gradually stagnant, yellow
A slow crawl on all fours to the finish line or a sunset swallow
The faded leather found sourrounding your veracious belt loop

And then there's Elizabeth
Storming down the church aisle to call the whole order off
She'd return to the dive bars in red lipstick
And break hearts through notes written in checkbooks

Cosmic chaos comforts
The living in regard to the dead
We have faith in stardust and song lyrics
A road map, phone number sent through the telescope at a camp sight

But caskets close and
Bodies burn
They scatter on hilltops and
Scream out in stereo

Sleepless slumbers remain
For Rachel and this is her
Peroxide obituary
For a mother gone too soon

She will choke you with goldenrod
And I will watch you get so close to death
That your body's going cold

Oh, flawed leader you were so confused
Not absolutely monstrous, just downstream
With shattered paddles. At the height of your power

You must have known - it would all burn to dust.

Blood and gold and memories made inside of a certain time and place

Birthdays stick to your teeth
Your ribs
Your shoulder blades
And shins

My bones are made of candles
And my head's an open flame

Too old now, to live without a fever
I wake up in my childhood bed,
Sweating and screaming
Dreaming at over one hundred degrees

Ready to return to the theater
Or to board the time machine
Anything to escape twenty
If you need me, I'll be searching the woods for seventeen

I remember you and me
Lying in her bed
In her bedroom in spring
She was playing that one track on that one record
That reminded us of that previous fall

When we were sitting in my car
The October air was frosted over
From the rear view mirror
We watched our two best friends fall in love on the sidewalk

You were in the seat beside me
You were in my dreams most nights

I remember you and me
Lying in her bed that spring
She was playing  records and proclaiming her love to you
We held hands under the covers and no one knew

The chorus was playing softly
you held my hand tighter with every note
Her tears were raging
We were all just kids

I remember you and me
Lying in her bed
The audience hung in the rafters
Drunk on your *****
Drunk on his beer

That night went on for as long as we needed it to

What if Death is not a reunion, a homecoming of prodigal children
But rather -
Terrifying
****-all
Death

Blackness and hollow silence
Flesh and the lack thereof
Not quite kitchen tables

And really, how softly can you kiss someone without killing them
Or watching their eyes roll out of their heads

Red plaid shirt
You wore it on the night of our second sober kiss
The end of last November was good to me
We planned out our winter breaks -
We said we lay on the kitchen floor and listen
To a song about sisters
(We know about sisters)
We stood with nervous hands gripping onto the counter
Your parents were home
Holiday breaks hold nostalgia in paper cups
Holiday breaks hold sad Summer magic under frozen high school football fields

Red plaid shirt
You wore it on the night that you forgot her mother was gone
August has always broken my heart
Wether I'm begging for forgiveness from the pine trees in my backyard, or smoking things to gather your attention -
I have never been at peace with the end of an era

We walked home in silence, party hat strings cut from our throats, and tears streaming from the birthday moon

You and your new friends gawked behind us -
forgetting every lap we ever took around your neighborhood
forgetting every song that ever made you cry
forgetting that the worst part about death is that we are expected to go on living

And I've got this tragic talent
Where I can fold up my feminism
And stuff it between my legs
Torturous ******, it's toxic shock syndrome

Apologies to suitors as I run fast from their drunken hands
When really I should be cutting those inebriated limbs loose from the bodies they've succumb to
Because I was taught not how to defend myself from charming attackers,
But rather to refrain from setting my drink down at parties and bars and family reunions

How is it that the Boy's Club manifested itself into the bible? And how the ****** Mary is only remembered for carrying greatness below her breast
Giving birth to the boy wonder all while keeping her ***** intact

And finally, once that sacred space rock exits the womb
We must answer to that almighty lord of genitals
Like if Jesus was a girl, the Ascension would have taken place much sooner
And that archangel would have had to start all over

February chatters in the
hollow of my cheeks.
Sounds like hallway whispers,
we went out with a flash.
Like nothing, comparisons pale in
your subterranean brainwaves.
And I am so very strung out on
Your Hair.

Pieces of glass fall from the film
above our church steeple skulls.
And sometimes this weather is
far too temperate, too mild to taste.
But it's tastes. And so it's metallic bolts
painting our tongues, some new and
glorious rendezvous held just past your lips.

Your mouth is a cave I crawl in to.

Thinking of your arm around another girls green velvet
Makes my ribs shake, makes my neck break
You can smash skulls from across the state
And I can cry into Joannas guitar

Thinking of you will only ever trigger reckless visions of my fist through dry wall or blood dripping from my lip
Everything is absinthe's hallucination
Reeling through my speakers
Everything was then it wasn't

You can brush ****** hair in your hometown
And I will never get over you
Kissing me every six months will leave my hands shaking - return to the bathroom floor
Waiting for you to come back

In my America, we sick dogs on the Natives
No reservations
Safety is:
Same ***
Same color
Pulling an afghan over Harlem
Pulling an afghan over the Afghans
Choking down turbans with turpentine

In my America
We ignore the horrors of history
Psychology is:
A field founded on healing female hysteria
Terrified boys sitting unabashedly petrified of
The galaxy between a set of particular thighs
The ******
Lunging into the vacuum only after they've been properly liquored up
In cowardice camaraderie

In my America
We segregate within our feminism
You can march with us, but stay at the back of the riot
****** spelled backwards is:
A ***** bottle, smashed off of a fraternity stage
And dragged along the spine of a man in pastel
****** spelled backwards is:
A picture of thread in knots, tied around wrists
Of female ******* rebellion
****** spelled backwards is:
I need this
For me
Woman
Alive

And so we'll bleed:
Through shin bones,
And fingertips.
Through our female eyes,
And particular thighs.

We'll scream and stay put,
But avoid stillness at all costs.
This is ground control
To The Marginalized,
Here to force a few things clear.

Your shock treatments
Will not drown out the
Footsteps. Inching closer and
Closer to that white front door.
And all that false feminism does

Is boil my ******* blood.

And my friend has three degrees.
With a rising temperature he says,
"Cheers to rebuilding!"
And we laugh.
And we cry.

I remember us -
Sticky in July.
The humid taste.

Now you're flat-lining in a corner,
Keeping perfect time with the music.

Conscious, then not - again & again.

You'll keep me in the waiting room,
And later, we'll drop acid in your
Parents' attic, and of course, I will
Never be the same.

Shortwinded bliss
That's all this ever is
Riding on highs
And hair dyes
The time machine resides corrupt in the pantry
Hysterical light passes through my skull
I am not awake

I can pretend to have fallen numb to my burning chest
My gypsy words (and my taroc pack & my taroc pack)
Flames in the woods - that's all it comes down to
This is tragedy in its truest form

Three kids sitting cross legged in a homemade shed
A trifecta, if you may
A band of crickets screaming prayers into the humidity
One recounted stories of robots in the high school hallways
All laughing and golden, whispering empty epitaphs into the abyss
Singing songs of nothing to a comfortable god
One spoke of aspirations shrouded in cigar smoke
A life of more than mother's wishes and monetary muteness
Being caught between stagnant calculations and hammered guitar strings
Lyrics tattooed the back of her teeth, curious wonderer, light wash grief
Questioning the deities found anywhere but her circle of friends
And we must sacrifice ourselves to rock bottom
One drank a singular beer and couldn't see straight
A hole in a head, filling fast with all those secret woodland soliloquies
Like for the first time, she could see
Clumsy ankles treading through the over brush, love or lust
And how should we go on living through these nights fated to end
There was a soundtrack to our revolution,
Haunting hymns over the busted stereo,
Love poems washed away with morning

But the night sounds
Oh, the night sounds
The holy ghosts in moonlight reflecting off the leaves
The sacred rub of skin on skin beneath the moribund trees

It's when we're all apart
That I begin to lose control of my body
Swallowing lemon juice by the jersey shore -
Things have been worse

Mostly, I long for that physical closeness
To hold a jaw in my hands, careful not to shatter it

And don't get me wrong -
I've seen photographs of myself
The way I live with my shoulders pinned to my ears
As to block out the irreparable chatter of finites and hydrangeas
Like the world has never seen your hair peak through closet dirt

Forget You is just ******* spelled backwards
Or looking deep into a mirror

I stood by and watched
As your birthday bled out in the kitchen sink

I've only ever cauterized my own wounds -
Pavement burns and those of the like

I think that maybe I know almost everything
I know that trees are apology letters from the Holy Ghost, mangled in the travel from afterlife to certain death
And I know that January is two boys sleeping in the dark
But I don't know what the sidewalks are and my mind keeps getting stuck in their cracked cement

Cleveland was a corpse
After the river had burned

Seduction is philosophical
Blonde boys play games
Like backwoods checkers
Blonde boys love brunette haired girls
Because pigment stains their wrists like tattoo ink
Distance is a screaming match
Between past lives and past loves
Blonde boys wear bracelets
To cover tattooed wrists
Across boarders, coasts, and continents
Voices cruise through noses and throat boxes
To bear the bad news

I think coffee smells like cigarettes
And I think cigarettes smell like far off Summers

The car beside me is from Quebec
And I hear children whispering in French
I'm accidentally realizing my own existence
Trapped inside this steel contraption
Like if I were to take off my clothes I would simply be naked
Or if I were to cut my hair I would just be carrying around a few less secrets
Who likes shoulder length secrets anyway
So maybe I'll sharpen this car key on the parking lot pavement
And give myself a good old fashioned trim

How is it that all of the songs reeling through my speakers
Call but one thought to mind
A boy in forest green, and then my own reflection
I watch myself float past in a mirror made of river water