my great aunt's hair

i'm flossing with a sun beam 
till my teeth are white.
let's bleach the apples 
pale as lotion. when i'm old
i will go to the salon every week
& let women make a cake 
of my skull. read a magazine
about sadness. a finger food platter
is floating from my shoulder to yours.
my great aunt's hair
is tall & curly & white. 
we were saved by a clip-on earring
before we had dinner. please wait
to be seated. what kind of brother
steals from his brother's wallet?
i'm taking IDs & coins. 
now i'm a real boy.
now i'm a plunderer of pockets.
my teeth are lop-sided like 
the old roofs in town 
or the gravestones up the road.
i am an old plot. if i could
i'd blink the walls of my apartment
anything other than white.
everything is getter larger.
i crave a little control
over aging. my toenails smile. 
they haven't found life on the moon
& i'm beginning to think they won't.
the moon dips herself 
in a cup of milk until she's soft
& manageable. i want to take
the rest of of the year
& just float in a warm pool 
of water. who are you to stop me?
i've noticed a pocket knife shows up
in a lot of my poems even though
i've never had one. there's something
i love about the eagerness
of that device. so, here's
the pocket knife. ready right
beneath my rib cage. peeling open 
& closed. the truth is
the next year already knows us
& what we're capable of. 
threading a bone needle.
boiling a found skull. 
a little morsel of moon.
24 hour salon. hole in a pocket.