as a fabulous fugitive,
I like learning new things,
and I don't wear ruts too well.
I'm just drinking last year in.
'twas up and around a right angle,
my fingers leave.
I like this silence,
it writes itself.
windows are points-of-view
while haircuts given with hammers
rest in aunt hills
of some kind of kind killing.
all your little yellow diamonds
are on a map,
making me read and tingle
every burial.
your boogers are delicious
and I am better
than tires
in a fire.
I lost
the guns
your mother gave to me.
I lost my way to the make believe tree.
rocks litter
paper breaks,
scissors cut,
we live.