wrapped up in aluminum foil
head resting on cracked concrete
surrounded by winking lights
and blinking eyes
warmth from the glow of humility
basking in the rays of a two dollar toaster
cardboard dwelling and trashbag scenery
paper towel t-shirt, styrofoam socks
salt and pepper lunchtime
pedastal reconstruction
hot coffee burnt tongue
peanut allergy and poisoned water
locked cabinet, rotting condiments inside an unplugged refrigerator
dying romance read only in magazines
purple heart scrawled on my arm
syringe full of bourbon plunged directly in my eye.

Teabag tugboat trashbag t bone tebow
*****

n I don't like him

The bodies
wash up
in the night.

Wash up on the neuse
and I stand
with a trashbag;
talking to myself.

I spend the morning
walking along the shore
picking up dead bodies.

I look like a man throwing
wet, leather purses
into another
black bag.

I am so tired, I need to get wasted
but I am pretty sure
any alcohol would curdle in my stomach —

the trashbag I keep under my
clothes, use my intestines as the
drawstrings. I get
anxious, my body is hot and heavy and
moist, everything slides off
my skin and never stops coming back.

I need to get wasted
but sometimes it feels as if everyone I
know is an alcoholic — mother,
sister, uncle, dad. It could happen
to me

and maybe I would finally be happy if
I always had something to
use to drown my body.
Having blood is not enough,
it won’t even stay under my skin. I
am so awake, I could drink
a river

and then another and another
and all my nerves would still feel open.

After you spilled hot cider
on the opal-purple plastic

sequins of the dress our great-
grandma bought you, we ran

down a cigarette-smoke
saturated neon alley

that dripped red blues and greens
between ivy-wrapped cracks

in the antique-brick buildings
across the lopsided street.

Carnies barked over plywood
counters draped in tablecloths,

shouting, “Prize every time!”
at kids grabbing pink ducks

from a foodcolor-blue model
of the White River, while other kids

popped balloons with darts like
the syringes our town is famous for

stabbing like stakes into undead
methed-out arms, and we hid

behind a coffin-shaped green porta-
***** near the chain-linked swings.

You held your nose in a gloved hand
and tried to dry the steaming cider

with a napkin I found hanging
half-out a yellow trashbag

full of skunked beer and flies,
and you said, through mascara-

poisoned bubbling black streams
and sour-pink lips, “Mamaw’s probably

mad enough I only won
Miss Congeniality — just imagine

how mad she’s going to be when mom
goes to the hospital tomorrow

and tells her that the cocktail-
dress she worked to death to put

her spoiled great-granddaughter in
smells like rotten apple pie!”

I cry

I cry without stopping





infidelity known.

she speaks.


a swarm is simply a swarm


I nod
blood spills from my ear.


a lance.

a knife to a fight.

short of a trophy
I prove myself.


star of track of field

six in the morning child

again


alas they say memories swing round


bad off

NATO orders my artillery to leave


die
(all of his connections)

die
(all of his corrections!)


its fingers
its denim

sweet sickly


the need to taint
its need to taint


of rose

of lace




and the nauseous chariot


I hear a man tell me to lower my pants


five fifty child molester





rumors of a wasp's nest.





Climb dig and burrow.

Four people become one warhead.


a family forgets it is first

a weld forgets it bonds



still a spider.

suspend my fangs



a jar



Orlando



Missouri



states away a kiss mimics a drone.


She
darker no.
now darker yes.


with shameful splashes we recover.
Gather and mourn in a corner.

a drink? a meal?

Yes, his favorite.

Her favorite.

Swallow.

First chew. Through salt and oil.
Find there the meat.


Excrement rots?
Fertilizes?


Or does it sink?



there

now our tears join.


With sodium we are one.

I'm drinking your blood
and you are doing many thing to drink mine


Chaos on this doorstep.




With you tonight.




remembering twenty five years ago


a signature is needed

a window to nail close.
a match to ignite
and a legacy to squabble over


life shines
i give birth
his mother
and i


and I'm praying he sees the same flake fall twice for the first time

and I'm praying he enjoys courdory

and I'm praying he has my mother's green eyes

and I'm praying he has my will

and I'm praying he knows my grandparents loved

and I'm praying he has my father's eye for beauty

and I'm praying he never knows where I came from

and I'm praying I haven't witnessed too many falling stars

and I'm praying I've not broken a heart


and I'm praying


i know it's wishful thinking


see thirteen species go extinct
see my mother cry
gnaw on iron bars
give more than have
gain a scar
smother an infant
bury a corpse
live their life
stroke hair


enjoy peeled grapes and tomatosoup with no vomiting


destroy a legacy


I reach into a wet trashbag
I feel hair and bone


I clean up and I grow up



myself molested
myself molded



a ******



two

three

and now it was eleven

twenty two?



then I wake up
and I forget



(hoping this would always **** me)


and I want to know why

I know you know what I'm thinking:

Virgins
Trashbag intentions
Looking through
Under your gaze,
Everything's changed

Night terrors
Angsty, sappy
Charades

All of the synonymous truths

The ****** counterparts
That have always been
Somewhat in conjunction

But generally speaking
I have my self doubt
I'm afraid I'll miss out

Or maybe fool myself forever

Trashbags

At seven he had already moved more times than the total number of years he had been on this Earth
And this time, like the times before it, he moved with his belongings in a trashbag. Stolen clothes, stolen belongings.
A suitcase, at least, would have added a small degree of dignity, and confidence to the whole affair - to being "placed" in another and another and yet another foster home before reaching 3rd grade
Trash Bags break,  you know
Trash Bags can't possibly support the contents of any life, and certainly not a life as fragile as this

Your words
Drip
Like a tap that's
Always on

Or a trashbag
That's ripped
And never ending
Garbage
Rolling down the
Highway

Blowing out
Inside the
wind of fear

You cause
Destruction

Then need repairing

Can't you hear
Your own
Words

Echos
Instill
Deliberate hollows

Rip me
Find me space