no matter how damned everything is i keep a flower in my coffin to remind myself that the sun still offers me something

my body is not a temple it is more like a corner bar in Wisconsin kneeling

still he saws at the legs of his Steinway old habits only die hard so he tickles the ivory cigarette hanging from his lips

droopy dark circles around the eye… brown eyes sad eyes sometimes he pees on the floor they rub his nose in it

Tricia Wozniak went missing on No… 1987 walking home from Arey Elementary first there were signs all over town

i was born in a basket of apples out of place from the start always berated by questions like “where is your stem?” “why are you so round?”

i can smell a clue about as well as a rock and if you’re waiting for me under a rock

dressed only in screams showered with water and death life escapes by drain

we fly down the highway looking for the next bar open on C… we each do a line and head on in flirt with lonely girls and take bumps in the bathroom

word traveled fast about the man with the crying ears sad with silence an absence of music left an absence in him

she dances like a fool at the idio… gracelessly fueled by cocktails and

his grin covered in melted chocola… his hands covered in blood and no one to stop him thieves are not running scared they are running the show

avoiding cocoons pride is the caterpillar that shuns butterflies

dying to stay in tune they rattle eagerly to play one last song