If 180 Million People Want To Be

Buffalo Bill's Defunct

Someone Asked Me What Home Was And All I Could Think Of Were The Stars On The Tip Of Your Tongue, The Flowers Sprouting From Your Mouth, The Roots Entwined In The Gaps Between Your Fingers, The Ocean Echoing Inside Of Your Ribcage.

When Skies Are Hanged And Oceans Drowned, The Single Secret Will Still Be Man

Your Slightest Look Easily Will Unclose Me, Though I Have Closed Myself As Fingers, You Open Petal By Petal Myself A Spring Opens Her First Rose.

The Sensual Mysticism Of Entire Vertical Being.