Swallow Dynamite
I never swore blasphemy, T-shirts, or canker sores, but she could play
corner kicks and some killer violins. Your hair is like gold lit on fire, my
religion, every week and every summer, my only audience, my Swagger
from Old Spice, was all for her. Those were my picture-perfect picnics,
the Trojan Horse implants answered faithfully for years. She was a straight
A student, but now the technology is so small and light in my hands,
the operation that works, submersion, is somewhere in Dominican,
swinging at stones. This waitress in my reading material proves my inability
to respond, and my skin balloons toward mushroom clouds, but with fourth
degree derivatives spiking off the charts, Are you as happy as I am?
How many kids to you have? And why is my body not my own?
My Groups
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Poetry Updated: Yesterday
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Mississippi Teacher Corps Updated: Oct 9, 2009
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Peace Corps Updated: Sep 16, 2009
Neighborhood
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