the begging is ugly
and you can't stand the look
of ice cream for breakfast
but when sleep is under
light dusted blinds
no one makes you eggs.

and no one will take
you west to build
bungalows of bone
and forgotten teeth
where sand blows
over the welcome mat
and the sun dies
behind stones named
after watermelon

and no one will open
your throat too wide
to teach you to scream
to let out all of the ugly
creatures that are digging
burrows into your throat
like hairless badgers
and mohawked mud-puppies

and no one will read
or reread words
written by your cigarette
stained hands of old
and used up
dried and withered
but full of juice
it is worth the squeeze

and no one will watch
to see you spit out
a rhombus or isosceles
when it is that night
that you've shoved a match
in your ear and can't stop
creating and mating
licking his wounds yellow
until bye bye bird eyes
like my swallowed raven
dead behind bars
irreplaceable

because no one will catch
3 singing lovebirds
from the christmas eye spy
to place in the aorta
because the pumping
is irrelevant to you now
and mostly because you
is me

and i cannot write letters
with no surname
expecting them to be recieved

and i cannot bruise kneecaps
by atoning for hours
on interstates

and i cannot take the drive
for future years
down yellow dotted black
because there is now room
next to the bronze tea kettle
to keep me warm
but the burner is not my home
i cannot simmer alone

and though i cannot,
i would make speech bubbles
filled with tiny dreams
and force them in ears
lifting the gray matter
like a helium garden
until the parade is escaped
and you and me and i and
his and hers and she and
him and us and we and them
are having tea under sheets
with four legs like tentacles
crawling and entangled to two hips

but you won't ask
and are already gone
my feet are chained
to this circumstance
and i cannot reach
the revolving door
that you are now erasing

only leaving a mail box
and a small library
with a collection of fines
and my shattered fingernails