the names of your enemies

vision of the end
a wreckage of kitsch, and a fragile paper boat
swirling past us

a babbling creak of vodka, full of Swedish Fish
sugary bloodstains on my shoes, and in the back yard
another day to get it clean
what a catch, made for trophy

the main problems have been negated
because wrought iron men never bend

lying feels so good, when you're beloved

like elbow length velvet gloves
the sky is pulling back

a zipper made of stars, and bone-china
is blinding white

the fear is palpable and pulsing like a radiation migraine

the holes we cut for our eyes
are sometimes back-lit
sometimes gone

the suburbs and the city
the front porch and the balcony

i could be yawning, or i could be snarling
but my facial expression makes no impact
on any Yankee conscience.