• These days I just fish the spirits in my pockets
    Languid, chewing up July again to keep it’s taste closeby
    Transfixed on the needle carving itself along the grooved black
    At my bedside- that so quiet turning, the so silent yearning- and
    I string my prey up, cut each one wide open on
    The flame, starving and flickering away, that begs the windows
    For answers to a question that it was never told;
    While I haggle at tomorrow not to come so fast and
    Try to hold onto your song, singing in the static,
    Dripping like chlorine from my ears, falling out of my sleeves,
    Wrestling off my sleep,
    Crumbling me to scraps for the saw-tongued dog
    That waits outside my door to be let in,
    To lick up the last of my skin,
    To eat up the bed sores,
    To taste the salt on my cheeks.
    Everything here just makes me realize
    How much I crave the cold of your old home.
    The trash can is brimming with broken 8-tracks and rotting cherry pits
    With crumpled up incantations to keep me from feeling alone,
    But I’m alone.