Albatross

Because of God you 

scooped out my lungs like a child’s Jack o-Lantern and made the seeds

into acidic clothespins I could dry my day old hate on 

in July’s Chill.

Your anger makes me feel young again.

The Duke of Root-Bear Floats

Half the time I swear your head

would look better collided with the 60’s photographs

and Coca Cola bottles along the walls of some old styled restaurant

in Fort Langley.

Though only a tenth of the time

I quite like your Tuesday smile in ratio to my

desire for bigger feet to steal your cowboy boots,

I’d imagine you’d look beautifully disheveled when emerging from

a compressed, singing Jukebox

where I would take the opportunity to steal more of your fries

and hide the camera so you couldn’t delete anymore pictures of you

smiling.

Evading Eventually

Though I could no more follow through

with creating a signature than admitting my epiphany that       I

appreciate the consistent line of your jaw,  

know I spend my days arranging twist-ties

into the shape of my initials,

in hopes of someday building a red sand castle

that could linger in the holes in beige sun hats. 

I’d finally get around to 

seeing the end of Breakfast at Tiffany's 

and stop promising to be better,

start shouting out my juvenile delinquencies 

and then politely ask your ghost to go ring the ship’s alarm.

An Army of Yearnings

An army of yearnings

govern me, 

ticking through the castles

buried beneath the clinks in my tilting neck

humming

a beautiful sequence from a nintendo 64 video game,

and I am content here.