plastic pumpkin head

full of tragic afterstories
& a wind-up moon. carried by
the neighbor man who loves me
like an almost son. i swing 
as jupiter on his old neck.
taste the ripe finger dew
from treaters open palms.
find a good light for me:
i want a flash or a bulb 
or a minor filament to floss with.
in the village, there are 
not enough vessels to go around.
resort to skulls for drinking 
& femurs for spoon. ask midnight 
who she is tilling tonight.
burial for my non-biodegradable self.
trying to teach grass to eat 
bubblewrap & saying, "come on please
the future of the atmosphere
depends on this." we don't all
work well under pressure. i do though.
i rise to the occasion & carry
wedding rings & crossword puzzles
door to door. i sell my face 
for grin. teeth & all. wipe
the licorice root clear from
where we meant to be children.
none left though, just adult men 
with their feet bursting through 
old canvas shoes. 
play ball with an iris. i can see
everything in the raw texture.
a drop in the bucket. a drop
in the bucket. holding rocks,
i always almost burst but 
i grit my lips. turn me 
upside down when 
there's no one else looking
so i can get empty. until then
not much can be done 
about the straining. the thing
about plastic-break is it's final.
the recycling bin is for beautifuls.
i am not & was never
a beautiful but i am a useful 
which is more pronounced 
& more handled. bring me to 
a good boy's door. i could cradle
car keys or even a spool of yarn.
to be a holder is to be 
a seer. everything fruition
passes through our grasp.
i'll pass you the scissors
& you can cut the balloon free
to become the latest planet 
too far away to name.