things change, news at eleven

we put salt on our shoes
and try to melt away the world around us

i knew a kid who was fast and quick
weird and determined
like the girls i fall in love with
i saw him once
sit
corpse still
with a fly buzzing around his head
it landed on his ear
the bridge of his nose
right in front of his eyes
and he sat
staring
at a sheet of paper
on a table
when the fly took notice
and flew to the piece of paper
the boy
sprang into action
folded the paper over
sealed the edges
folded the corners
into an origami frog

i feel as though i am traped
in a stomach
that cannot digest me

all i see around me is white and dirt

my scarf
traps
my bad breath and indignation
scars raise above the surface as the color sinks back
i seek out rendered fat

where i am at
right now : in my life
in a chair (always)
typing
i think (as much as i can)
that a 15 minute snowball fight would be more satisfying
than a 30 minute blowjob
but (then again, and there is always one)
i've been getting blowjobs since i was 14
or at least trying to
there is only one (1)
or two (2)
snowball fights a year
if I'm lucky

old men tell me i have a future
i thank them
abrogate another piece of my childhood
hand it to them, dead and cold
it's payment enough
they tuck it behind their beards
they get off watching younger men age

fill your palm with salt
and grab an ice cube
it takes less than fifteen seconds before the chemical burn
sets in
it is not enough to eat away at the skin
it nibbles
my boots ment the snow
the salt ruins the leather
my hands are stained red
and i can't yet tell if it's polish or blood