i’ve always thought that friends
were real, and i was shit and
poor and fake.
the shooting stars that rip
each one as synthesized indemnity:
rips them into family-brac. relations.
family is a bitter dream, dreaming of some
ancient polar star
one befriends with orion…
any where you go,
there’s mirster belt and
cock pointing home.
in a room by lamplight, house at
midnight, you ask, ‘what’s my boy or girl?’;
parents reply, repel you like
dreaming of leaves. leave: 16 older brothers
keep you away from
teatherball. each has,
knows you, by a different name.