Your blood owns no bones,
with mailmen in your home
holding a kinfe to your poems.
To hollow all you've sown
and holler goner you'rou owned...

and supposing you was meant to be bent born some sorta alw man,
with the poise of an intellectual and hunch of a clerk,
the disposition of a saint
and they'd say...
he is always with cancel eye and ever correct...
and knowing that
are you less
In the ever [bad word] endeavor of a human death.

There are only two species set to death on earth...
The creature of choice.
And the creature...

Where in the human who,
Are you?

and supposing you was meant to be bent
sole keeper
Of the kilometer
long list of things certain to be so.
The human plight right there in the 1's and 0's.
And he who knows all that's owed
you'd think would be considerably more fearless,
unless of course,
he feels this
heat of [bad word] to adjust his
eminence accordingly.

To go on stealing poems,
from the homed armed with
only a [bad word] 
letter opener carved from bone wish,
with which to pick
the simple levers of locks
to fly things well beyond the sky of your clock

Your blood owns no bones,
with mailmen in your home
holding a knife to your poems.
To hollow all you've sown
and holler goner you're owned...