Graves

take your pliers; pry open my mouth
pull out all 71 of my teeth
let the blood
trickle freely from the wounds
down fractured,
porcelain
chin.
                                     If you don't like one of your hands
                                                   just cut it off.
                                             Feed it to a pack of
                                                         feral
                                                         dogs.
tesselate your missing soul
to every little boy and girl
let love be found
                                      Because the rich get money
                                      but never what they want.
                                      And, mostly, we don't know
                                      what we want until it's gone.
I threw my 8-track player
off the flatbed of my truck
driving on a nameless country lane.
I took a detour through an autumnal forest;
I got lost along the way.
                                                 one broken windshield later
                                                             I am found.
Now I know you're made of wax
and a chipped crescent moon.
Your internal glow was just that
of  two dozen flashlights shining dim.
                                                    with these words I hope to spawn revolution
                                                    because none of us are as special as we think we are.
                                                    and that includes y o u.