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This chest is a stalk of cherry pits
wrought with carefree grit
and a hint of kerosene
it lights up the string theories inside of him
that glassy grin is widenin' but,
you know, In spite of them
I wear streaks of monotone and sarotone.
bouncing from the edges of the endzones
dotted lines seep through his pores like black ink
and divide the centers,
wrapping and interweaving through the surroundings
enveloping the shells of bystanders.


I've got a whole lot of broken clocks round his throat,
can barely keep my head up anymore in this cold
but I forever fights for the following gasp
never understanding the circumstance,
a slave of instinct.
No matter how much of a morphine drip he walks,
he won't stumble over his feet.
He'll hobble off with a bottle of his broken thoughts
contemplate the rarefactions
wear passion like bare backs and
tear tracks from his past and
air out the grooves along his shoulder blades.
Someday.