Always Making Duplicates

Tell me you have shape
under your scarf like an
awning.
Wind breaker like
a kiwi cut-open underwater.
Salvage the canoes.
Cut oars with cocaine
and wet rocks.
Then kiss the
ghost of my lips with apathy
not unlike sleeping
dreamlessly.

. . . . . . . . .

My life,
is often seen through
normal eyes who notice things.
Like the waiver in my gait.
Or t-shirt fabric.
This is who transcribes history,
strangers.
Without my tongue, you
cannot speak my name.
Without my scars, you
cannot have the plot-line, yet.
I've started a bonfire in a nearby
dumpster. The authorities will
be here
shortly.
So lets dance in burning plastic
while we watch our surfaces
turn into dripping/
modern sculptures.