pack it up

every ginger door
splinter sore slams
                           o-shit structural damnage
blow grit out
orbiting tinny feedback loops
nuzzle all the rubble

i can't carry:
this
                  all of it i
mean       i'm going to kansas city
with a rocket for a spine.

& die because my giving floats astray
                               i miss cigarettes
miss my dragon drug
want my fucking
CIGARETTES CIGARETTES CIGARETTES CIG-
ARRETS

but i don't write much about things i used to do.

& don't worry i'm used
to it like i'm used to feeling used to feeling             my own tits.

a team of kind spiders
is already weaving my new hide,
                       built-in acid panels
solar self-soothing                    
                         
but allow me to wish for
                                     just one body
                                     i could trust
to be wiser than i:
because i find i'm often kind of fucking dumb