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Description
these petite sinew and bone sculptures that play, shriek, scrape their slick knees below my tower:
two lungs inhale the soft contours of their cardboard cut-out limbs
pinned oh so perfectly, concurrently, with splayed brass fasteners
flailing, probing the edges of the second dimension
it's september and it's raining and the lumbering ice cream truck is still making its lumbering rounds
silent night tinkles on the stiff air and
like the charred wings of dog days dead it falls
to the ground to rot in the wet gutter
where i imagined that each individual note was quite alone
i thus forsook my proletariat castle, prostrated myself in the street,
felt my ribs fold over themselves, snap into each specified puzzle place
until my geometry was comparable to that of an armadillo
uniform, my framework anticipated the prolonged crunch of the wheels
and the feral creatures who slept in the vaults of my skull stirred uneasily,
entertaining my malignant fascination to circumnavigate my spine round the greasy tire
so, smitten, i planted my palms in the asphalt's powder and grit
the fragments of sandstone shone like metallic galaxies
under my beautifully mortal fingernails
i hungered that someday, the day which keeps the shawl of the horizon tightly strained against two marrowless shoulders,
you'd love the most honest of them all and then delicately, precicely
clip its keratin frontier
suspend said sliver by my skinny brain stem,
anchor that vulnerable jewel along the fickle silver zipper of heaven and earth
so the feeble crescent would half smile back at the
virgin dandelions that so nobly, devoutly,
truly haloed my satisfied gutter corpse
children will henceforth wish upon my constellation
of cells

Description
these petite sinew and bone sculptures that play, shriek, scrape their slick knees below my tower:
two lungs inhale the soft contours of their cardboard cut-out limbs
pinned oh so perfectly, concurrently, with splayed brass fasteners
flailing, probing the edges of the second dimension
it's september and it's raining and the lumbering ice cream truck is still making its lumbering rounds
silent night tinkles on the stiff air and
like the charred wings of dog days dead it falls
to the ground to rot in the wet gutter
where i imagined that each individual note was quite alone
i thus forsook my proletariat castle, prostrated myself in the street,
felt my ribs fold over themselves, snap into each specified puzzle place
until my geometry was comparable to that of an armadillo
uniform, my framework anticipated the prolonged crunch of the wheels
and the feral creatures who slept in the vaults of my skull stirred uneasily,
entertaining my malignant fascination to circumnavigate my spine round the greasy tire
so, smitten, i planted my palms in the asphalt's powder and grit
the fragments of sandstone shone like metallic galaxies
under my beautifully mortal fingernails
i hungered that someday, the day which keeps the shawl of the horizon tightly strained against two marrowless shoulders,
you'd love the most honest of them all and then delicately, precicely
clip its keratin frontier
suspend said sliver by my skinny brain stem,
anchor that vulnerable jewel along the fickle silver zipper of heaven and earth
so the feeble crescent would half smile back at the
virgin dandelions that so nobly, devoutly,
truly haloed my satisfied gutter corpse
children will henceforth wish upon my constellation
of cells