.this is not poetry. by counting-vertebrae, journal
.this is not poetry.
someday they'll catch me
in the bathroom with a finger
down my throat
a backwater boy
for rotting out my teeth
the fleeting image of
an mri scan of fluid in my lungs
like some self-induced tuberculosis
i am weak as a noun
as a kick in the teeth
as the storming of the bastille
i think of bones encased in gold by counting-vertebrae, literature
Literature
i think of bones encased in gold
call me sisyphus; my wrists
grip napalm nations & i am
parasympathetic. i speak
in cigarettes, more stippled
spinal cord than american
romanticist. sanguinary, pocked,
my pleural cavities leak
prozac pills & -
oh, this body has never
belonged to me.