the giving is up six gun style

celophane cephalanic, an excuse
for how addled head space becomes had space--
a pickle in the night sky. face this music boys
the sailor watches the moon with a 400 hz hum
behind his ears. trying to tie one on he
lets her go, all wild circles and punishments for baby.
not again. not again i won't do this go there be that.
giving up seems to be the waning thing to do.

i could invite trouble again, reply to a frozen embryo
that needs a next century's coddle. but i think
i'll live it up now, save the balmy
undertakings for the undertaker.

you don't have to hiss your prayers in whispers
in the streets anymore. give it up for the gods
with a lamb and a new resurrection. private parties
partaying in drum and rainmakers. find a niche
squirm into it. my body was rebelling long before

we were supposed to dance. you probably
shouldn't have called so many times.
the anonymity was bleach for the sheets.
now they're stained with recognition
the color of a scab on your baby's lip.