Ailed Vibrations

hungry

or don’t know

him at all, but soon

we find the pills under

his bed, or the things that

stretch his eyelids wide shut and

bring them nothing but the push-pull

of a helpmeplease when he stands, ramrod

straight: distilled unease creeps into his mouth

when we freeze in the headlights of oncoming traffic,

and we find sugared vitriol stuffed into cracks in his skin

that bleed red ink, bleed the fine dust that he spends hours

grinding with his teeth -- a fine boy, carved with love and dark

nothings, young at 15 and old at hospice, living in pushpinned space

when he runs furiously, dripping yellow ache to lose a spot in

this race after all, living on wooden skewers in a puppeteer

ville and stabbed with the cocktails in which he finds a

sliver of his insides mixed to bitter perfection, the

sort of love he half-heartedly reached for to

stop it all -- bring the faulty assembly

line to a sparking halt, bring his

four-oh-four binges back

to a dirt-packed floor

that doesn’t forgive

nor bring him

respite.