channel , brush stroke, i am death and I am painted on

like breaths of smoke from winter coats over frozen lawns

rebellion only lasted  from night till frosted windows, crept dawn

rubbed your scattered hair, gripped and matted till i heard  you yawn

in a dream you seem to leave memory on pressured cloth

innate beauty is in you, it’s not something that you choose or not

so novels stream out your mouth like all that weight you’d lose

write and write behind closed doors till i dont recognize you.

tiny birds explode to stars the further they're from me

flyin in the morning space and on top canopy

my idea of what i want is more simple than you say

but stronger still like quaalude pills, so it could kill everything

but also pain it makes you rain across window edges too

i dont think i can do the hospital again....

an noone has to know about it

how tiptoes tip

....all the way to Brighton, MI