“Gotta write the bike in a fight for strife in a dive for pines with leaves for cheese & these are fleas for keys, please,” babbled the idiot as it stuffed greasy peanut butter into its blood-chapped lips & through its unbrushed rusty teeth.

But the suffocating pressure

o’ the flimsy arm bone o’ the lung

pumping blood to the brain

foretells the stitching o’ the heart muscle.

Someday the steel stiffness that won’t let my arteries bend will be filed ‘way.

Perhaps when it tediously figures out how to doodle its name in the dirt

‘gain & ‘gain & ‘gain & ‘gain,

it’ll find mo’ thread

for a true quilt.

Easy there…

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