cigarette garden

i've been burning my guts without any help.
sometimes my stomach is a super highway.
it's the one i take to my neighbor's house.
in his attic there are moths 
with the faces of girls in my grade.
i used to take the yearbook & black out
all my faces. i switched from saying,
"when i go back" to "if i go back."
don't let anyone tell you there is
a light at the end of the tunnel. there's
maybe a strawberry sandwich if we're lucky.
i try to walk on mashed potato legs.
the floor is lava. now the floor is fly traps.
why can't we all just lay in a pool of
our own playdates? i go outside the mall
& find a cigarette garden. you are smoking there
even though you don't smoke. sometimes i wish i did.
i might have more time to think about trees 
& my retina detaching. beach ball party.
a tiny little paper umbrella. don't worry
about disappearing. everyone does it
once in awhile. mine just comes 
like blue cotton candy. let's walk between
the burning jaws of our future 
& say to one another, "isn't this
a beautiful garden?" we are either playing
ping pong or billiards. the weight of the ball
is different but nothing else. 
men are digging in the sand for a still burning
collapsible organ. at the thrift shop
someone hands over a half-smoked pack
of gardenias. one tiny spider descends.
i don't bother telling him i am a death pool.
instead, i lie sweetly & tell him
i am a garden full of tinsel.