i'll spit the spirit out
it kind of looks like parenthesis
and a glut of question marks
ink-dark and shiny
i'll spirit out the spit
lungs fresh and pine-tasty
a bucket for the hull hole
you can like to tell this story
or set the dates up on a pinwheel
and watch them spur into dirt
the sport in it's danger when
you're winning. all the pamphlets
and noisemakers discarded
over footprints. very descriptive
in the smarts. very toothy
in the grinning. almost no gums
left. and nerves that jangle, nerves
that shout their names out.
There was tell of a man with a tree growing in his lung. A pine. Right where his breath was coming and going from. No light there except what came through his speech, throat wide open and the sun above it. How these things happen. How they keep this happening. And what is it you believe/what you hear-see?
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