This dark street tonight can't shutter all those little golden rules.

It's all I can do to stay inside when no one’s around to show how deftly I can break them.

Maybe tonight’s the time to stop playing with words; though, I'll never give up my child-mind.

They own me; though, I may pledge to stop acting so crafty.

The kind of stuff that pisses off my imaginary agency.

See?

There.

Gooey blue pen like an exhaust pipe pointed out the front bumper.

Taking in all these storage units now.

Silly what I spend on; though, doesn’t anything made clay-in-hand come with a pass?

Open-top pots of every imagining, set out to hold nothing but the life’s work of my untrained eye.

Missing corks accommodate my refusal to let insides linger.

Yet, there’s one left that places low notes cool to the lower lip.

Whips up dusty phantoms in the nostril.

That one swirls with moons of fingernail plucks.

How many times someone was desperate to plunder its guts.

I’m so tired of lists tonight.

Won't you burn a list with me?

Sometimes I need a friend in that kind of forgetting. 

To torch something of their own so they can't see me in this state.

Tomorrow we'll sit together and wait out the sunset that makes troubles look like popsicle drips.

Laugh at the broken rules, remembering full well what they were breaking in us and who cares.

For now, I’ll take the doors off the hinges.

No one’s coming in, I can tell by the way they’re all grabbing for the moon.

I can see tonight there’s much escaping to be done inside all those little golden rules.