Mr. Bleach Bone Sticks consists of
the sepia-toned alien, the conspicuous word, “why?,”
his baseball-cap-covering, a cardinal sin,
the eyes, the Listerine-blue-iris-Listerine-green-iris-switch trick
is above the needle scar on the lip,
and ouch, there is the life-giving tree on the ribs, bony.
The murdered platinum root
is infused with noir-dye soot.
The Marlboro Light puffs are endearing enough.
There are also the quarter-sized, mutilation-ear lobe holes
and the beauty mark moles.
Where the khakis begin, no one knows;
lo and behold…
a continuous war with gravity.

the eggshell time-card,
with the name stamped on,
was all that he could give me on Mondays.
He battled the bacteria warfare
of the contact lens solution on Mondays.
I was his poor substitution on Mondays.

this world-of-girls lie outside
in wait for him.
Alas, I don’t deserve him,
this deliverer of confectionery.
Because I fled on a Greyhound Bus,
my pockets are stripped of his honey.

So, now, here I am now reduced to
a finger graffiti, a crude typography
of his sacred initials on the steam of a window
wreathed in holiday holly.


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