My bathroom remains the only place I'm ever naked,
smashing soap into my hands each morning,
the shower throat all belching there behind me--
bloated with my shed skin riddance.

One non-restroom away my blinds clench up on the California sun,
setting fire to the dust and possible day pull on my apartment & I.

A genuine fear of where all this sleeping leads
has got you thinking this--
about what you would and wouldn't do to survive.
You would not dig for a fresh wet wishbone in a still kicking chickens chest.
You would not dissolve small slices of unraveled arm under your toungue.
You'd maybe kill the power to your hand but that's about it
really...

You know, the razor for your face can not cut kids from your male animal abdomen.
You were not born the moment your stomach was finished.
Your one wing plucked eyes half filled
and wild yolk like so
sliced into a since.

So I ask you!
Have you ever really had a hand fall off
or found your mailman in your home
eating one of your new poems, holding a knife to your bills.

Half swallow the scream you can't cut
and still keep all the juice that opened up arm
by tightened the ropes of your digital watch.

You will grow no ghost to leave this angst to
and this no ghost will wear no locket for the safe keeping of your fear
to dangle like a heart
so it may always and forever hear the gulping throats
of all your stopping drops of blood.

like this was something beautiful...
when compared to your red skeleton...

you say,
you've asked nicely for your arm back
except

Every time the sun leaves you alone on a far curve of the planet,
you think you feel the whole slung 6lb's of your cartoon heart
and all its irons tugging drugs toward it.....