Three Tongues For A Crayon Red Mouth

Thomas woke this morning to find
green rain slip-ticking,
coma choking, falling in aluminum-dog
stages that hear like asthma breath.

He thought about how he'd give
three tongues for a crayon red mouth,
something not paper-yellowed
and crunch-toothed,
plaster over vaseline eyes.

The splinter-bone war is ear slicing,
is rooster-eye voodoo---
he can't paint anything that does
not step backward on oil-black piano keys,
when blood tastes like glass bird bombs.

To himself, he speaks
as fast as he can't hear,
tremble-clicking burnt words
orange in the brain,
while morning slides its thimble
across his dirt-grin mouth.