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Jolly Rancher burps are the best I gotta tell ya

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gimme creeps.

if i never crossed my fingers, i'd never laugh when luck sneaks up grow young now, show scales and stern disagreement

(both to shed eventually)

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"read an article about how in a few years, fireflies will no longer be a thing." "a thing?" "extinct, y'know. there's fifteen different variations of them already gone. isn't that nutty?" "i was going to tell you that i saw another plane crash on the news but, that statement is sadder than anything i've ever fuckin' heard."

"couldn't be, right? worst news ever? well, true. fireflies were always there, at least in the background when you were a kid and making all decisions that led to where we are now."

"without any goddamn fireflies? did you say fifteen different fuckin' types? that's a future that needs to be turned the fuck around. i want fifteen types of fireflies watching over me when i suck it up and walk home in the dark, all fifteen types. light the way, you beautiful lanterns!"

"well, like whatever asshole wrote the article said. a few years."

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tricky faults. guiding sanctuaries to starring in foreign examples of what characterization should back its ass up, stay away from kicked-in corners of colleague-adaptive wounds as empathy gladly helped us empty out our cubicles

(just as it was thought, it's raining in the parking lot)

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got a lil egg on your face, sweet doc, house encouraging a slip inside to fuel pyres miles high on sweet-scented hills crawling up to whatever (wherever) your heart attempted construct as a kingdom of america's well-pronounced blooming of (chance) and (failure) and (apples rot in acres of our skylines)

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queer runs on stable tundra as constant "wise men" decide fate for pocket-watch checkers sneaking glances at hands that should be throwing fingers (or fists) or darling necklaces into oceans away from grasping fiends of sandstorm flurries (put our asses in dunes) neck-n-neck no ending accomplishment but humming crap-doodles into puppetry; suck it up and let's tell everyone what we really feel through marionettes

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blue drink and scotch.

yuletide in our wrong month. listening in a strong wind. for cardinals.

blue drink and scotch.

wrench ourselves off wrong shelves. listening to those quivering birds in wrong winds.

blue drink and scotch.

blue drink and scotch.

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"if she was curt, then i don't know what to tell you."

"you probably deserved it."

"yeah absolutely, you probably deserved it so. there are swords in the corner, if and when you wish you battle it out?"

"she was curt. but i do think i deserved it."

cornered, snark, let's break chairs so everyone needs to stand and face facts

cornered, stuck, let's look toward exits but realize every breath has already snuck out all those doors with kisses blow behind them

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all points to an internal uproar, snagging threads of will inside a dome considered advocacy for keeping sanity bottled and contained (that's weird? or are we thanking an obstacle?) go on, go on (go on, go on) getting stiches in my side from all the strange laughter that has left through the same imagination that whistles when nervous

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synthetic pathetic, the same reason we're all here and keys dropped in the gutter shines a light on drunk expressions; pardon us we have a pool hall to haunt with wasted quarters

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just the little twitch... yeah, that's the one, stirred into stew on gas ovens of yesteryear in which many a poet went in searching for clarification on gibberish words of caramel-coated ferocity never to come back out

baked into kitchen walls are smells of sustenance long ago wasted on mouths that needed more bullets or toothpaste get up from achy-breaky table with a shorter leg it's ashamed of and waltz on over to dirty-patch fireplace eagerly awaiting sustenance of its own

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Career: wigmaster on gay porno shoots

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Wish me luck I'm about to run into an infinite thicket of briar bushes like in various Disney movies

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rubber souls,

glue bones

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take your chances,

and take mine too

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footprints in the snow

the trees bury their heads between the sidewalk and the lawn

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compassion is not as marketable an asset as death