What do you want from me?
I am lost.
and Florida bound.
maybe San Diego.
just a stupid bullet.
looking to be deadly.
put my hands behind my back,
and I want to say
that I have a really good reason
about coming home late at the night.
underneath the killer,
I have subway eyes,
and the Rumbler despises me.
turn my kite
into black and white,
leave me for Brooklyn,
where biscuits turn Sundays
into a row of Chinatown bed.
wasting is an art,
like the mornings
we mingle into
television shoes.