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What should become of them?
All these fragile white fallen things.
While matted feathers stick to the dew,
of bright morning blades of grass.
Their gaping mouths talk to the depths,
screaming insecurities into his ears.
Sharpened hands close tight around mine,
begging for sympathetic fingertips.
As soft warm eyes squirm in their skulls,
oozing liquid vivid onto tiny faces.
Should I pick them up before they die,
then throw them back into the air?
Though what goes up, must come down,
so maybe then, their better off on the ground.
The Fourth of July
Stand on the rooftop and gaze into the rips where the stars, they drew a promise on his skin with needle tips.
Breathing deep the green-grey smoke, guilty spirals in brown eyes, holding hearts with Porcelain Doll because boy, it gets you high.
You can paint her face like mother's, sign your name in Freckles noir, but only smile disheveled-bitter at the thought that she were yours.
So put your hands up to your mouth and sew it shut with guitar strings, before you shout out to the world the "te amo" you cant sing.
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
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