anxious as hell

Hibiscus tea for the kid
with the cough
housed up
with a December cold

he broke out
came staggering
back to the door
sneezes in hand
let go
change falling
suicide notes
grocery receipts
insecurities

the keys out
the keys for the door

shit

he felt important once
in his life

that was written
on a note
but no more

he could trace it
like a continent

when the tea
cools down
get rid of the spoon

but it
goes down the
wrong pipe

haggard looking he is
filled with fizz
broken
down old bridge
a structure still
holding together . . .
like an elephant
trying to ride a tricycle
conflicted
lopsided

they were of
smoke that
dug their
perfumed finger tips
into his shirt color
as anchors
holding
him there
captive
nervous

the next war was calling him
into duty, into someone’s cross-hairs
no one could talk him out of it

they kept saying
this kid is so wet behind the ears

The Female Body Inspectors kept close tabs on her LJ. They tagged her morbid, yet typical, teenage entries as a threat. I wonder if they read this, if they’ll think I’m her age. Only, my singing voice has escaped long ago in a get-away car. Where? I can’t say where.

What can be said any more? I hate the big wigs and their bombs, but when I say that, their computer jumps and sees “bomb bomb bomb, alert alert alert, put this kid in the dirt put this kid in the dirt put this kid in the dirt.” But I hate bombs. I mean… I hate… checking myself like this.

they kept saying
this kid is so wet behind the ears
and he was

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