bildungsroman with strawberries & an ice pick 

we are too old to be children.
i steal the atmosphere 
& you steal the gun. 
i am falling in love 
too fast again
& we are in time square & 
i do not want to know who i am.
poetry is better
when it's not being sold.
that is why i sold videos
of my teeth online. 
there is always a part of your body
that will need to belong
to another.
this is for survival. 
when you spend too long
adhering to tenants you do not believe in
there is a rushing out of the self.
i washed the feet of men.
they told me i would make
a wonderful boy.
an antique market
on the side of the road 
where we ate grocery store strawberries
& made too many promises.
boyhood is a place where
all the pocket knives are born.
i would watch them emerge 
unbidden from the palm
of the man's hand. 
he refused to weep. we are driving 
away from our life & pretending
we have another. a hotel in the sky.
it lasts too long. you read me poems.
we argue about everything.
it is easy to fall out of love
when you have no money
& only jars of your own blood.
unscrewing the lid
to take a sip. garnet lips.
i used the rest of mine to buy you flowers.
they turned out to be
carnivorous. 
love me until
i am dust. rusted ice pick
i keep in my trunk. it wasn't for you.
it was for the winter. 
winter has six fingers. has a fourth
& fifth eye. frost on the windows.
waiting on your porch.
each breath a cloud. an angel.
do not believe for one second
you have become a human.
it is a process without an arrival.
here is where i learn 
to swallow a whole necklace. here is
where you apologize without apologizing.
i lock the door that night.
text god, "i am not your son."
no answer. you call eigthy-two times
& i finally pick up.