Placeless sleepovers draw capes out the door - mid night march under orange hums so bright. And skeletons fell to the tink of glass. You took karate. Mother takes you home. Home is where the wet heat husks purple sprouts waving across property lines. It's hard ground and that's where you play. GI Joe is buried for ancient aliens when they finally arrive; artifacts of youth and agony all sushi'd up in dirt because like the fancy folks say - from that dirt you came and to that dirt you do go. But not ghostfaced kids behind Japanese shades. They stick around. They stick like jabs and Kraft mac. Foyer chimes calling them out, pink marble surfers, guided by Reagan handrails. Ooo but it does you no good. They seen you lying, he's got that belt. Now you're grown! Swarms of sulkers crying "but it ain't our fault!" They're damaged goods, sick day Sambos, milking it. Tomming something hard for that soapy selfhelp. Curators of crap upon crappy crap; those memories of dark groves in Saturns and moonlit urges. Those heavy days crushing in. But you're stuck on the river, paddles of jelly, 5 AM road rage, leaves in the alley. All the world's creakin' along in their socks. Alone on the porch, alone in their flocks. Life ain't nothin but pain and cocks, dew and drops, peace and pops. God: that magic tumblin' fox; keep me ornate; keeps me goin til I plops.
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