Dream in tattooed tongues,
Velocipeded spoken poetry,
ringing bells,
a tingle crawling upened down the throat.
Red lines collecting along your bottom.
Stop.
This is not a telegram.
Maybe a singing telegrtam.
Bang.
Interrobang.
I'll need to be punctuated.
My sentences running rampant
drying out of ampersands .
No periods in sight.
A blemish at the end of thought.
Spirals attaching through the throat.
Is it over?
I can't remember all the letters you wrote to me.
Does it matter
that I'm still in love with someone eles?
Does it matter?
What is (the) matter?
and how does it?
I had a hurricane meet me
and become a piece inside my body.
Butane beneath the skin.
"Forget me beautiful child."
This week is just that kind of love letter I suppose.
Good thing I still have that plane ticket.
I've never been to New York.
Or Brazil.
Dry mouth and dried out punctuation shouldn't stop you.
You can pick up some pauses
and something wet along the way.
Just start making tracks.
Start with your name.
a poem about your name.
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