THE SEVEN-SECOND GENERATION.

White plastic hanger, previously molten molecules, bleach additions and thermodynamic repercussions. I use the word thermodynamic because "chemical" has a falsely truther connotation to it. It hangs the shirt I choose to wear for tomorrow.
A hanger is a hanger is a grocery bag.

There were actions behind every reason—but not reason behind every action.
And you don't talk about it, but you think about it—because you don't want the whole world to realize that it's loneliness hidden in that shirt. You were only trying to tell yourself that maybe buttons on the other side was for the better.

I forgot which words to capitalize in a title so I took capitol on them all.

There was a world once, out there, somewhere, that cared for more than seven seconds. They hung up the power button, asked the tide to come closer, and walked until their hair was wet.

Kept going until water kissed water within lungs.

i open doors—and walk through walls,
open thoughts—and forget them all.

talk to a bottle—kiss midnight

i do not think i feel alright

what much affection
believe you earned-her.
once loved to learn-her.
help-her, hurt-her,
oh baby, choke-her.

Pop-pop, rattle-bang
Red being the color of the carpet
In hasty prayers, upwards is forgotten
North, East, Smith & Wesson

i am
(after all)
alive in you

                       this day .

the soft brushing,
the course fiber,
the flaxen hair.

i kiss you smally.

you do not stir
more than a pale breath
around your nostrils.

my son is inside you.

i will always love you.


(...sleep)

three circles will linger
in my grave when i die
one ring on my finger
two under my eyes

oh hips, i'd gather all them,
(your spine i deserve).
i'd much rather call them
a coastline than a curve.