when my closet opens it all
tumbles & on the side lies my rag
fitted- black-tee used to woo myself
I push to my long-black durag
I wear to often shrink to a stereotype
jumbo Rogaine tin cans tiny portals
to youth I push to my melatonin tablets
lost magic scattered white pebbles
on a shore phony chains lighting me
a golden-christmas tree I push to my
smoke from seductive candles to clear
out misery violet tickling feathers
angelic-faced numbers in ancient
cell phones I push to my chapstick
used on her lips below, Japanese whiskey
& white wine flavors voyeur conscience
to my own foul play of hollowness
push on to small flashlights to illuminate regret
in journals from my young manhood
at night, bastard ideology when daddy
was only a dial away I push to my half-empty
gel pens used to spawn spiked poems
about mama—a contra ode fables where I wish
upon myself to be a hawk —unbounded
I push self-portraits framed nailed down
the dankest corridor in my brain
all the overused yuck I dump in a deadly
ditch the sweet
so long to my rag