I want to paint myself passed
out drunk, smelling like weed in your arms.

Because I know that
you are one of the only people
I know who wouldn't
molest me in the wake of my incapacitation.

And I wonder if that says more about
my friends
or
me.

Speaking of which,
I have had this craving for
fresh tomatoes and Swiss chard.

I suspect it's like my craving
to be someone's saving grace.
I want to put good things back into me,
not just purge myself of bad.

Some little boy is out there,
waiting for me to find a reason
to raise Hell to save him.

Just like there's a little girl out there
angry at the world and ready
to break anyone dumb enough to get close.

And I could save them.
I can save.
Regardless of my 'location'.

From the gutters or not,
I will save them.

You can tell me I'm to soft
to withstand the blow of
dying crack babies,
or
that I will never get over
the deaths that didn't have to happen.

And the child molesters who get their
children back
will break me like waves on a sandbar.

But I don't care.
I'll be strong enough.
And at least I'll have tried.
At least I'll have saved a few.

And it'll always be more then what
they had before.

Once again, I don't know.