30945325

They say it will kill me but they won't tell me when...'nough said: a love letter to last summer ffrom knyotni to compliment the 07 photo album .little bones buried in a shallow grave over a bed of gifts its little body to young to have fur yet its toothless mouth its transparent throat the smallest nipple i could find was to big , his lungs filled with warm goat milk i had hoped might be his miracle his life began in an engine block in oregon in the warmth of his siblings under his mother it ended in a few daze after a hope filled color change in the palm of my hand i hadnt slept more than an hour all week this is just one of the memories that flood me like all those breakfast beers when i look out the back door people stand here and see a dump or they see unrealized potential i see alchoholic breakdowns that were gateways to problems finally recognized demons finally introduced and sat down with i see work parties mud parties drinking huffing building parties i see all the truck loads of trash that have traveled through the gate and wonder again where does it all come from? i see bikes built up and torn down their frames hammered out after being wrapped around cars i see broken skateboards ass tattoos guitar lessons giants of men in fetal positions weeping out their broken hearts shorties moving cinder blocks from point a to b and back again to work out their own fist sized muscle dying our skin with wine puke and glass filled soil this backyard is the reason we know 9 people and 2 dogs fit in the bathtub this backyard showed me just how ugly i can be the mirror that destroyed the bravest of knights by showing him his own heart this backyard has fed on the blood of unborn children it has fed drunks their annual solid food nursed them back to sometimes dreaming sometimes destroying themselves again this yard has given rest to the burnt bodies of angels whose wax wings got sucked under a suicide out of portland the musik has shaken the whole block the fire has lit up the very tops o the trees naked bodies writhe in thier own kind of prayer we sang each other out of our heads and back into our chests standing on the caboose of several night trains under less stars than many of us would prefer i bet youd like to here what i think of the kitchen.....