the street from a cereal box

they imposed on me
two little bullet holes
the dearest reasons
to become real
to dance into something a bit less
appropriate than a smiles
lifeless comedy, and pardon me
I don't live there

embattled fists raging with their lack of reluctance
spilled across the split open street 
 those  flowers as red as a tea rose
provoking nothing less then a box of cereal

spilled across the impeccability's of white linen

it was a small unimpressive little war
a few pop - pop -  pops, 
 those ticklish insinuations
staccato adagios poorly aimed at life

we expect 
to generally murder them selves before
morning into a neat page six
and he was my son

the  flies buzzed the pawnshops
to find some inexpensive cutlery
blood is a blind business

the kind that buys your manhood a dream or two
down on main st when opportunity sharpens itself

like a last resort

I promise you less then a responsible smile

maybe a full time job,
and a means to fill some assumption
of America like the cigarette man used to ride off into
before that cancer problem got in the way

and he was my son
and you believed me because I played your song
the one where you got what you wanted
without the proposition of lifeless sirens
and stabilizing heart monitors