Too many words spill
from your puke mouth
and I'm on constant tower guard patrol.

8 times we exploded
inside the mine,
not once did you attempt to catch
the fleeing parts of me.

Bury me, red Christmas skull
towards the north star
and place a kiss where my mouth one lied.

Denim orifices with flavored lip balm
eye-holes,
caressing in the angles that science allows,

aged in a milk
left bitter by the hours,
taunting her intuition and waist line.

Cabin fevered stop signs
limit our sight
to red wooded octagons and bubbling creeks in the night.

It was here where Alicia missed her bottom lip,
tripped on some setting stones,
and became one with the Earth.

12/24/2010