a man should die gaunt,   and not bloated and overdone,   there should be new words hidden,   in the shadows on his face,   and like a wine glass, in a perfect pitch, he breaks,      we're being dumped into order out of buckets of sea salt,   what was the first condiment?      but always one rose grows though a littered lot of gravel,   or we're struck dumb and doomed when it doesn't       flowers are how plants laugh,   and not by joke or to ridicule,   i never saw my parents,   try to make a thing like me      in time in the bathroom mirror,   i learned to accept my body.      i got jumped into living by a coven of midwives,   under a dracula-caped eclipse,   like cutting through watermelon meat with a wire,   you shoot sick from the hip and never miss.      all the things inside me i assume,   are doing what they need to be doing,      and always one rose grows though a littered lot of gravel,   or we're struck dumb and doomed when it doesn't.   always one rose grows though a littered lot of gravel,   or we're struck dumb and doomed when it doesn't.      looks like a sky for shoeing horses under..   looks like a sky, of some kind