daddy's pockets are toothsome

i've do-sa-do'd my soles off by now
so, i sit, take a pause
until my decisions are made for me

but forget-me-nots die out at the first sign
of hoar frost and this waiting is more
like my first experience in
self-strangulation, but,

fee fie foe fum
i wonder if my dad's amalgam
can make me the richest one
he seems to have a bank set aside just for me--i
forget the chair he wheels
along so that he may sit up straight
with us; he's cold to the touch

similarily, i jump from hurt to hate
like a rabbit from its mouth
to the crustacean's bellyache

so my hard work is measured in sections
of heat vision--of oranges next to blues
right about the heart;
or by simple sugar chains to quickly
quantify the organized lipids in my frigid skins

but there are reports of when my eyes scan
for (oh, man, i see him. another bellyache for me to
savor) the best possible error in the room and my heat
sections burst from cold to magenta, momentarily,
presently, boldly asking me to cover the bubble shaft,
disarray in my characteristic, endless impatience

and, again, my heels ran raw
and i go back to daddy with a flagellation
stick and he gives me a 20
to go and find a way to forget.