when the better part of sensitive, reverts
to sequence, like air spoiling fruit;
it's time to rearrange.
selling time to change is hard, like
lighting candles with scapegoats,
and praying for a flame.
i once lit seven cigarettes, at once,
and passing them to friends we shared
I once half made love to a girl, who hid
her pain in the nook of her chest; closed
her eyes and wouldn't let me in.
I once cried at the site of an elephants foot,
dried and stuffed, resting in shag carpet
and covered in wax.
I wear shirts of justice, telling stories of
of letting go
of consequences that have no intension
of following through.
that make me?