Penguin boy.

Three hours' sleep stored
behind my eyelashes and this small town
starts blending

their faces make this pale wash
over the sky line
we barley keep our faces open
while driving our cars.

our tongues are quicker than
our motives
to control
the very things we need not

we were white trash county-
we were heavy moonlightin'
swooning with our boots on
or off.

As if any of these peculiarities were planted by you
As if you were doing me a favor

remember that moldy art show we went to in Portland?
you are staring at this piece of
abstract art or something
and the artist is holding his champagne glass
with his pinky up
his stupid pinky.

and you are making noises
that imply
you are making sounds that are

and he walks away with a smile
and you decline (with a shake of your hand)
the finger food the penguin boy
is offering you.

Today not a single word from him
just a screech of a bird-of a tire 
as if the universe suggested r-i-p.

Honestly, I felt so romantic all day.

when I think of death I think of
always brewing.

then Oswald overhears and scribbles on a napkin
please,death is the least of it.