holding my last cigarette

[mongoosenoodles]

cold reputation. ode to the wingless, soluble sagittal crest.
these are the feet that love you, poised threateningly
over thoracic cage and charlotte, north carolina. 
an inconspicuous jawline down
the east coast that breaks when it
kisses my throat. ode

to the bevel up that i stick
in the blood and suck on the fruit of.
ode to the longest night and the birds that eat it
out of my hand. i drive the speed limit home  
and feel close to you.

and ode on an ice bath of stars
from the rooftop of the place i came back to after.
in which i can see myself as a blue blur,
the stagnant water standing in my mind and rotting dead de stella nova - 
suspended in time, like a 
solvent, sour milk
plasma; whether i am leptospira or the andromeda galaxy, sacrificed
to the spiral sea 
where there is a staircase that leads me so deep into this frozen house 
that i cannot see what flowers
are at my feet.

those are the flowers that love you and 
they watch me in the dark room like a spider in amber with
their young faces -
the faces of the children like me, that look like perfect adults
until they smile. children like you, midwinter, intangible. 
i want to clean the shit off of those kids.

ode to the weddings and dinners i will attend alone;
my parents, my trellis, eaten delicately by cancer and boredom and condolence letters;
my mind dissolved by
cold reputation by lethargy and failing hymn:
ode to whatever flood will overwhelm you, ode to the parts of you it leaves.

.