No wonder my clay pigeon utterances
suffer that upper class belittlement.
Raised chins only face one way
and the sun only knows one thing.
You gotta see to shoot, so who's to blame:
me, the game, or those who blindly partake?

Eat my metaphors.
Let 'em bubble up in your gut then
metamorph into hiccups wickeder than anything this side of the thicket has ever witnessed.

Preach from the streets,
no, belch from the bleachers about
how you heard from the greatest
and he said you could taste it.

I wonder if                  she'll notice
I wonder
if she'll notice the many bitter black roses
that I painted gold with composure
when I noticed her little fractured
world was soaking,
Imploding


I wonder
I wonder if she noticed
The earth's rotation nine degrees to the right when I asked her, "How you doing?"
and she replied, "Just fine."
then smiled me a goodnight

Probably not
Coincidental

Gravity falls
sweep me up

Where's the mop?

We waited with that
white porcelain cat patience
for what seemed like a generation
of, "Here, take this."
Passing notes through the ozone layers
In a grand game of cat and mouse cadence

Wake me up after
the comet becomes crater
And the impact radius
breaks the sound barrier
Pushing your eyelids back past
your misplaced judgements
Splintering your precious pendants
to their brittle core
Let me dream a little more,
it's the futile things
that I adore