I dress like a mannequin, speak like a faucet,
I got three rocks in my pocket, a broken window
in my future, and my tattoos are leaving
for other bodies, other arms, other nights
of sneaking in while your parents are asleep,
dreaming in their sleep, deeply
dreaming of their other lives.
It was an apocalyptic April.
You and I were just crustaceans
mustering the motivation
to grow legs and grow
out of the moat,
that one day
one of these
learns to hope
I’m a soaked poet
floating on dope.
I got algae bloom in my dark room.
Taking photos of blank walls and
roses in trash cans. Backwards
backspin on the chalkboard,
I wrote all my poems in glow in the dark.
I followed fleeting phantoms
unscrambled eggs in my Easter basket
I’m just a kid, just a bastard.
Countdown to the last man standing
window fan bowing down to me,
sitting in the heat and humidity,
Hollywood glitter kitty. Slick
Gothic creeping bougainvillea
These bones are the buildings
of this city. This imagery
graffiti on my breastplate
rests on the template
that we’re all just
simple and kind
and we’re all
for a nice