Whiplash, my necklace broke in a car accident in a vehicle made from soft skin graft
and a voice that goes two ways, howling guttural rhythm and blues,
but the blues sounds better sung than does rage out of the pretty mouth of a gun,
hung by the trigger from a rope I fastened about my needs’ necks
and while I’m replacing the door slamming across my face with her singing in the kitchen in my head, I’m imagining that love is a beautiful thing thinking, that’s what imagination is for, turning old shit into new flowers without gardening.
The big sleep, iron steeling sickness, frozen with my ghost threading through my stitches,
drowning on a borrowed dime with a broken watch, watching the clock, waiting for god
in a hotel in the rough part of my head, where the girls stroll in high heels,
and the men slowly smoke as they wait to be dead.
A lopsided arrangement, entered into without really caring about the terms,
letting a murder of crows break bread at my table, clearing the crumbs from the silverware crashing around in my soul, forget and forgive or forget to forgive for forgetting to give a damn that every last piece of me was what I gave to you, and now I don’t want it back, keep it and eat it or breathe it like the final little wisp of smoke from the burnt remains of our auto accident.