sticks and stones and textile bones.

my insides have reflected there pattern
on to the kitchen floor
the catalyst for this was sunlight.

there is a box on the kitchen table
it has been there for seven years
it is begging you to open it
instead it just collects dust
the dust from the ashes
of all things rotten
all things

my bones became crystals
the soles on by boots
become worn
from all the walking i've done
on ancient cobblestone

I would let you all stay here but Frances has the guestroom occupied.

Frances is a ghost.

The pattern of the bedspread is something from the 1970's
it was found :
underneath the soil
behind the black church
next to a chicken farm
during a 4th of july picnic,my father was playing baseball.

And the woman at the stop light next to me is:
layering her mascara
around her sparse poor eyelashes
and my eyes
are soaking it in
stroke by stroke.

blink by blink
i can feel everything. 
the worry of the woman on the subway
the longing of a little boy
to mother screaming out labor pains
the death,the gain,the hope-of joy.

my great grandmother used to say
that my mother was the cutest little lap dog
she had ever seen
when she went to visit her
in her large home-in sweden.
my mother grew up to be a beautiful blond human woman

the fact that she was mistaken from a lap dog
once in her lifetime
( a poodle)
had nothing to do with the development of
her-or the layers of her being.

just as your words plan to attack
his future
or put to rest the concept of his
brain,laced up in chemistry

you are drinking
from the very bottle
you've tried to poison
10000 souls before

stick by stone
word by word
you are croaking
you are stabbing
the wrong-one.

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