From a two floor skyline
An abandoned house talked to me
It said young man
              You are heroic
              And ten years old
 
Among twenty generations of friends. Friends will free fall away. Free fall up.
Free fall to walls with fifth grade speed to industrial paint behind second-hand fences
 
Young man, use quick knife tones. Be bone and brass. Be last laugh music.
 
You are always leaving. Always one change of clothes from the door. A life in escape.
 
Two floor skyline said you are the guide that dies in the middle
                                                                                                                             The friend more blues than skin
 
The face that cheap hotel schizophrenics can place
With 90 miles per hour right eyes
 
Among dry heat killers
Once children
Three feet high
And roaming
And repeating
And aiming
At cotton mirrors that hang on breathing walls

You are ten years old                           Tagging along                           Yawning at well-lit violence

Whistling tool shop songs 
You will be useful
 
You will be high and alone
Flying on a nephew dragon
From a twenty dollar family
In a sky that calls itself
Just more soil

Around walls
That are just walls
Except these walls
Suggest you make wives
Out of highs and currency

Here the air is polite to sleepy glass and bullying walls.                              

Young man,
You will admit
That sometimes
Suicide is power
                         Some people live stronger as ghosts

And sometimes the afterlife empties
 Billions of souls 
               Enter objects
                         Like playground bullets
And abandoned door frames. Even broken glass will prove it has voice too.
 
There are 24 hours behind your back
 
Look over your should right now
Can you hear it?
The sound of drums punching themselves out. The sound of piano parts learned in between assassination
attempts.
 
Be bone and brass. Be bone enough for two souls. Be invincible again
 
Suffer
Red-eyed accents. Professional fingertips. Our gifted victims. Six in the morning beer. The first month of probation.
               -The shout at the wall
 
See these words that shouldn’t be home
 
Look behind you again
Be invincible again
Be Windward
Be a sad machete
Be her son
Be a thief
Steal them back
Laugh too long
Never look away
 



The afterlife will empty
                                                            And walk you home