I am the barely operating portion of this orphan fist fight. The kites in the tree again, good thing I tied chainsaws to it. The ones who know the words but bite their tongues like pitbulls do children, you're the murderers, and I'm a murderer, and I've been a murderer since I was born. And now I'll commit myself to train tracks with wet cement. Well don't you want to speak in voices more than soundbites? Don't you want to be the voice that says "I'm free!" Don't you want to hang from clouds but not hang yourself? Oh, I'm a little bit of You but I'm a whole lot of me. Sick of fitting in with killers. Sick of filling in for surgeons when the emergency is me. Kids, someday you’ll be buried in what you’re digging, but there’s one final breath you can have it if you want it. Like blowing dust off an old toy, we’ll blow these lids off our coffins! My pants are rolled up so I can wade in your blood. And I'll let you run, but I won't let you get that far. Who cocked the gun with the canopy aching? Who cocked the gun in an edible hurricane? I'll stand on a cardboard stump and lose the attitude. Give up on strengthening your shadow when the light is on your neck. Give up on yourself, give into newness of life. Teething on ornaments or a kiss? Living long enough to see your blood quench thirst. Bid on dead eels, what a pain in my neck, so we can swim all night. Black bears love to sleep, and live. Black bears dead in pickup trucks with hiccups. There wasn't much we could do with the pair of paws we carved out from history. The pallets were stacked too high and you just burned like a bonfire. Bodies are funny like that. Heave-ho. Buckshot in my left front pocket. It's moody, it's shifty, it's prouder than I'll ever be, and that's the thing with me and you I'm pushing sixty, you're just a bitter boy. And on that day, all the saws carved deep. I'll do the driving. Back that truck into the back of my head. I'll do the driving.