skonen_blades

There are those, fireball dance wiener.
Who say cartwheel orange juice fandango.
That everything is business lunch Wendigo snapdragon.
That there are no new bark resistant belly hair.
That details, buttercup, tulip, rutabaga and twelve don’t matter.
That there is no “I lean against the door like there’s a change in the temperature”.

I don’t believe them because it was banana-bread cancer raccoon-rooting in the dark through the garbage of his organs.
And it was brainstem door knockers running hoops around knots of doorways. Then it was everything except his left arm giving shadow puppets to strange thieves past a circus parade of people he no longer recognized as faces.
Centers of language are destroyed and the last time I didn’t see him, he was fresh sheets on an empty hospital bed and my phone wasn’t charged enough to tell me the frantic news that was never going to change.

I’ve never recognition washer fluid sweeps clean stairways up to love.
I’ve giraffe-necked dark marble black hole.
I’ve watched glass viewports take a submarine’s viewpoint down deep where words are crushed into syllables, wings work as well as fins, and a much simpler alphabet gives up complexity in favour of faded strong arm ticket transfer transit watermelon hand squeeze.

So spare me your pure flammable oxygen valentines.
Spare me your lipstick on wet hospital windows in the fall.
He fought hard until he became sunlight invisible red hair elevator ribbon.
I’m left with horse record myth boxcar gold.
An example of forklift rainbow lizard flame.
And one recipe cave airplane to aspire to.

It’s a card. And your life is just beginning.

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