I saw a bottle of acetone.
Thought id give a squeeze.
the toxic nectar was on my hand
and now my hand is white.

I know a guy,
he is a friend.
Whom the cops often have to,
apprehend.
He used to do
some crazy ****.
But now he doesn't do most of it.
I know you are thinking,
who is this man.
He is a friend who drives a van.
Although not to pick up kids with treats,
he uses his ride to satisfy his needs.
Which includes dolphin collecting,
live or dead,
he's always selecting.
Vaping real hard
every single day,
is how he spends,
his hard worked pay.
His job is selling,
illegal pelts
of rare albino beavers.
He sets up traps
and waits in the bushes
with an over sized cleaver.
Stalking and waiting for the perfect catch,
he watches the ****** closely.
And right as it comes into reach,
he slits the baby's throat boldly. (baby ****** not a real baby.)
My friend makes his way to the flee market,
where he sells the pelts.
He greets his customers happily,
as the beavers hang from his belt.
Blood on his hands and pride in his eyes,
he knows he's got a great prize.
The money rolls in,
and he know it is true,
that night he will party
until his lungs are blue,
(due to the fat rips he'll be vaping)
On the weekends when he's not working,
he hops into his van,
and drives to the border,
to make sure no illegals are lurking.
Loving his country with deep passion,
my friend protects us,
with the guns he has stashed in. (his van.)
After his duty is fulfilled,
he spends the rest of his time,
all alone,
drinking gallons
of acetone.
Then in the big city
he streaks for hours,
with bags of broken glass,
that he likes to devour.
I totally agree,
my friend is insane,
and on his family,
his acts cause great pain.
Although,
he treats his slaves
with a lot of respect,
and he gives porridge to the
needy and other rejects.
He's better than me,
because I like to suffocate,
small injured birds.
And barge into restaurants,
to steal cheese curds.
But my friend is the best,
friend he can be,
as I described in this poem,
that you can see.
Unless you are blind or stupid,
or don't have anyone to read you this,
just know that my friend,
has your children in his shed,
and they'll sadly be missed.

Our houses, spitting-distance close
Feet propped on railing
cold beer with fresh lime
watching robins flung in flocks
to the failing of August

Too close-- Really?
John, on his cell
is fu_king the world again
from his garage
Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog
Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine
late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time

Clinking silver, scrapes of plates
Running water for suds
through open windows to the thunk of pots
Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage
or joint in the woods
wafting over all
wordless squeals of delight from autistic child

Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes
all doubts of--
--Gawd!
lodging low and toxic
as the sun dissolves orange
in its acetone setting

Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls
Leaping hedges, slamming gates
No yards can contain these kinetics
restless legs, furtive minds

Muttering wind chimes
from four different porches
above the drone of highway
a half mile yawns

Pieces of talk
flipping the crickets
over--
Why or who or at what time?

Other-worldly glow from The Mall
dims stars
outlines mountains
brightens the horizon behind

Mosquitoes coming in for a landing

Some children wondered why the grass is green
or the sky blue
Well, I wondered why your touch was made of ice
I learned of gravity and the f word
and decided
your presence felt like ******* free fall

You say you've changed
I know you have
but your kindness
still turns sour in my mouth

I want to love you
but how can I?
When I accidentally wiped your poison kisses
with the same sleeve I wore my heart on

you call me a coward
for confessing my heart
through a piece of paper
rather than with my lips
perhaps because
ink dries much faster
than these tears do
acetone can disguise the truth
at the tip of my ballpoint pen
and paper may be shredded
for these feelings to not exist

Dreamt

I drank too much coffee,
I'm talking, way to much coffee,
Kind of like drinking too much gasoline,
I am currently on fire.

My pulse,
Scary repetitons

My heart,
Spinning andromeda like.

My legs,
Tired like mile walks in wet sand

My eyes,
Closed shut like too much of whatever you like

My fingers,
wet from the acetone
But it's not so, because there is NO acetone.
Just this lingering smell of manufactured chaos.

Of course you figure I like the smell.
That its a blooming poppy
Pheromones and such.
It is, and
I do.

Acetone

You're my hopeful undertone
and *that is where
all this love is
vulnerable like acetone,
because if one day
this all ends,
where will hope go?
I must place my hope
in the stars,
because even if all else crumbles,
they will still be there,
shining, burning,
reminding me dead
things in your heart
get lighter the more it gets dark,
reminding me that a star lit sky
is capable of fixing
a person's broken parts.

the mange of our fuzzy logic is squandered on the imbecile.
and genius is the gene splice of twelve comedies.
a rogue moon in a hooligan.
it jumps the fence and can't jump back. lacking the tool
that undoes the beauty of the obvious.
that quaintly dismisses the Oh ! My ! God !
we cringe in the ether of our ignorance, spooning the villain.  
the Mind is the Common Sense Killer....
it dives and triumphs in the acetone conundrum
of our proximity to dissipation.
the bold features of our doldrums
are the perfect ugly perfection
of our flaws.
our love is the rigid agenda of a massacre.
we the people, are the juvenile, sprained wrist of a boggart !
a Fae dreary.
we have our business in the withers of dead horses.
we are well versed
in the tundra tongue of our flat humor.
we assume the rumors are true.
and the tyranny that freed you
is the misery you
love with
and your beautiful
doom
kissing
a
mirror...

a Thing.