Bear Hands.
Been writin’.
The Bible didn’t mention us. Our worms turn to dirt, but we’re delicate in the way we dwindle each other down. They bathe in my mouth’s dirty lake, why? Because I ordain them. I confer holy orders upon he of which is not applauded. I’m one big mistake. I should revel in the sight of snouts and bristles, yet I’ll wait no less than sixty-six seconds to reach sixes and sevens, dress to the nines, and scorn the eighth.
Making eyeballs for my mind. Making ex-lives. Ex-wives considered me a saint. Fiances consider me a dastardly man. I’ll heal that by my wedding. The statesmen bring ‘round horses, but counted erroneously the guests of honor. The first dagger put my skin to rout. Gave me my first scar. That scar now makes merry of my hands. My hands aren’t my own anymore. They were lent by the bears.
