knifeblock Mother's kisses. Mother's kisses on my neck like bee-sting curlique. Stone cold stone in my lap. Not hands, not her hands. Whet stone cold stone in my lips. Mother's kisses on my kicks early in the second period the score is 39-11 I do not know the teams. The ruffle of skirts in a bag, a black not-duffle bag, faucet pouring forth skirting round the cusps of my perimeter. No, you can do that. Mother's kisses bathwater smearing via knife. The one you know. You know the one. Kept in the knifeblock. Where oh my back is the knifeblock again? It is behind me and I'm lookin' it. I'm lookin' it. I'm lookin' it. Mother's kisses shoves Newton's Third Law of Motion us into the grass I never burnt hands on, I never ran with scis sors did I? Instead, slipping with ear we are pushing forward into the knifeblock. Christ I screamed If you put your finger in it you can still feel a divot. The usual: She dug thumbs into pine's clay where no one could see her. Where no one could see her scars. Mother's kisses like a pawned book skittering into and out of my shelves. Where are she again and when with fingers redwhite can I have her back? Like the knifeblock. Y'know, they only make these games to condition you to kill innocent people to teach you about your motherland to sharpen your aim. Go cry about it on our bed if you want to. Mother's kisses statue away into the bedroom. The actual bedroom harboring pipes, polio, bachelor's mattress. My fresh salt spray feet stick out from under the Mother's kisses playing comforter. Like knives in a knifeblock.