K.M.M.

Little, quiet
graffiti talks,
very much,
the loudest.
The surety,
I've only now,
found.

E.

The cool parts are all you.

For real, for real.

Really, I can't hardly remember
what the fracas was all about,
just that my feelings felt jilted,
again,
and that my fuse was so stupidly,
um,
shortened,
and that, in dawn's glimpsing,
your sweet face seemed, well,
impossibly small and porcelain,
and beautiful.

And that maybe me walking away from
everything seemed so easy or hobo or silly
and how all of those things could be,
or were,
two different things.

Easy.


I don't want to be all the other folks.
I want to be us.
The real us, superheroes,
Rusty Perros,
big shots around the orange monkey.
And the gray one.
And the calico.

Right?

Because, my love,
if you will airplane me,
then I will carry you around on wicker chair,
like braggart, like celebrator,
alive and happy;
and when you are in other rooms,
I will confide in my own heart,
in loud whisper,
that you are,
(and here,
I will have to speak,
in hushed tones, heart language,
but,
that you are,)
really,
the best thing,
ever.

Alone, tonight, the new
studio, paired interestingly enough,
with broken phone, affords me
the alone minutes,
which I spend,
planning my way
back to you.

We.

Are family.