Tuesday, January 12, 2016

You don’t show your hands


You keep your hands to yourself.  Everything got grit and oh the cloudline cold mornings, this new year of keep yourself hold tight or a shotgun.  You went thin gait down the streetline I should’ve held you every second I had instead of neighbor, coworker, for you were a boy and this world needs boys, whether slinging weed at the stop sign or bringing me bottles weekend nights, my god we have gotten this town so drunk who knows, tony, you sweet thing the police have shut our whole block down and are bullhorn calling out your name for two hours now, nothing to do but say yo t, can I pop over nbd I am here.  Who will down 12th St gait a boy any longer.  I should have run out to you every time you hitch gaited past my window instead of all this, t, we are all alone, yes, t, you were too precious, t, yes this outfit is stupid and I am not myself biking off to be teacher, no this ain’t it either behind this bar, yet there is earth somewhere a boy throws marbles, boys in trees, there are boys alone the wind hugs in the trees, there is the wind through the door crack hugging you to your next life, there is the shotgun, t, there is all us wishing this shotgun would hold you instead the police busting in and all us with our weird hands and the wind down 12th St and this earth now.