rain echoed blues sounds

whiskeyborn to the mommas
yester-ed, yes sir
and my dreams are lying of
curls-slain and tin can impatiens
grow out loud

you find romantics
in the bagel halves thrown
to children in shells
pink and eroding
like the long weekend

tattoo your face in
my armpit
then I will always know home
and when they sell me
to chickens, they can read
of the wrong

speak softer
into rain filled jugs
for my mouth cant stand the sound
click one and
two
and two
and static