Ethay Igspay.

Rows of shelves counted twelve
with idols built of man.
Dirt and clay spilled ashes
which were gained and weaved
by the richest of thieves
and wisdom found its way out.

“So just take your time
and for God’s sake
bind her legs
and tie her arms to a post,” said the snow.

Create a day of nine
with Russian fractions of swine,
which was fled by men,
who forced life through powerlines
and whitetails found their way out.

“So just take a risk
and for my sake
paint my corpse
and lay it in some gold.

So just take you mind
and for God’s sake
down some pills
and vomit some kind of brilliance,” said the rust.

The pigs took her away.
And the pigs took her away.

Third Shift.

Second sound home with lit up faces
your hands are cold scribbling on paper.
Ash targets are sold canned goods, diced tomatoes.
with limp arms feeling, this is my swollen face.

Tear it off.
Tear it off.
Tear it off.

Surround you and awaiting.
If my lungs give out tonight,
I'll always find a way back home.
My neck is strained looking out the window.
Seeing you only in my bedroom doorway.

Tear it off.
Tear it off.
Tear it off.

Your blankets are warm
but your brain is foam
falling out, you're stolen gold.
I'll feel something just to hold.

Tear it off.
Tear it off.
Tear it off.

I loved your marble green staring back at me.

Third shift and broken but you don't even notice.
Third shift and swollen but you can't believe it.
Third shift and stolen
you're just another third shift secret paper bag holder.

I loved your marble green staring back at me.
Tear it off.
Tear it off.
Tear it off.

Third shift and broken
but you're too drugged up to notice.
Third shift and broken
but you're too drugged up to notice.

Tear it off.
Tear it off.
Tear it off.

I am Nothing.

Again in my cell with ice aging walls, writing in red pen just for your attention.
There are holes in my knees.
There are holes in my feet.
There are holes in my head.
“The lack of sleep,” you’ve said.
So keep your teeth on your tongue and clamp them down so hard.
And wake up while I’m still conscious and around
with a never wasted breath,
well, only on your chest.
I thought I told you, “I thought I knew you.”
I thought wrong once again.
I thought wrong.

So bite your crowded tongue
and bite your loving lip
and make it bleed so thick.
Make it bleed so rich in color.

What do you call it when your best friend drowns and you’re still around to hear from their parents?
What do you call it when you’re sucking down all your new friends?
Twenty is man’s best friend.
What do you call it when you are dead but the note on the door says ‘thanks for everything’?
What do you call it when you can’t force a smile
and it’s been this way before at least a thousand times?

What do you call it when you’re sucking down all your new ‘friends’?
Another pack wasted another day later.

So bite your crowded tongue
and bite your loving lip
and make it bleed so thick.
Make it bleed so rich in color.

All the blues and reds in this old town
can’t force a second limb and a frown doesn’t mean anything,
to anyone,
especially the ones you thought you knew
and the ones you thought you loved
and especially you,
yourself,
while youre drowning in your flavorless gin.

I am dying.
I am dying.
And I am the Boyertown historian.
I am nothing.

This is not interesting.

Sofa junk, you've found a new way to talk
to your favorite bowling ball.
So subtle.
So, how have you been?