Misanthropic air balloon tugboat
of a rabbit down a whole lot of mirrors that spell out fear backwardly of love.
A genuine 1950’s stereotype.
I am the bed sheets in the wash.
I am the itch under your waistband.
The notch in your belt.
I am the scotch that catches in your nose hair.
I am an island.
I am not a rock.
I am the drool on your pillow after a somber sleep.
I am the bloodshot red in your
don’t know how to touch
don’t know how to feel me.
A truant of
your mind seems occupied with colors and washing
machines controlling our children.
A fan of your senselessness is going to fuel
the summer air was so warm that it kept me in
a stance that you held as we stared under fireworks and funnel
caking on the present like you’d never known makeup.
I am lost in your foundation.
Joshua Tool – 01/18/13