Harvest

Lord, I am terrified of dying
My heart sputters, my lungs weak since COVID,
My confidence lost; the space heater also
Nearly did me in last year.  
And it will be a year like this one when I go.

Your combine will swing crop duster low and reap

With no thought or favoritism.  

But oh this life...
Where to begin?  

You don't charge for sunrises
And the best Bierstadts only echo sunsets

My irises snap open to:

The sun in blue over the North Pole;

The sunrise in brown at Issyk Kul; 

The view from Arthur's seat at sunrise;

The Milky Way above Mt Hood at night.

Van Gogh, the Hermitage, the Louvre,

36 countries and flags and all the we's and worries

Of cab drivers and garbage collectors and actors
Of illegal immigrants and single mothers

And Malick films.

I have tasted no less than twelve languages on my tongue

Sang in Persian and Uzbek and Russian

I have been on the radio and television

And I been taught to sing by an orphan on the spectrum.

I have been kissed; I have been loved.

I have tasted the glory of Cajun boil, horchata, and shrimp tacos

And tried everything from crickets to frogs.

I have imbibed the waves of the Pacific and the Atlantic

And floated weightless in the little dead sea in KG.

You don't speak much but

Oh my ears!   Things too wonderful to mention...

Finnish hymns and Polish poems,

Chilango y Chapin rhythms,

Callings to orphans and Kyrgyzstan, 
The letters of Chopin in Dresden,

Switchfoot at the House of Blues in New Orleans

I have heard the pains and self-doubts and sins

And the hopes and dreams of a generation.

I have been called father,

And son and brother and best friend and lover.

The smells of horse sweat and seafoam and plov

Fresh baked pies and wassail boiling

So many flower-filled fields

And valleys filled with the aromas of waterfalls.

I have brushed up against desert sands and pyramids

Anemones and dolphins and porcupines.

My hands have wiped away tears,

I have been hugged thousands of times

And my life has touched thousands

At camps, on the metro or the mashrutka.

I have written books

And sung my songs.

I have studied and taught

Seen miracles and triumphed

And failed and hurt others and learned.

I have changed the world and lived so many lives,

I have seen my dreams, fears, humiliations, and goals be realized.

And I have I held lonely people while they cry.

I am the richest man I know

Because of my friends.  

Because of these experiences.

It is so much more than I deserve;
It is so much more than enough.

So thank you.

I will cook this meal, spend more than I think I should, wash the dishes: 

To feast, to remember, 
The abundance of this life  

The harvest of the days.

Forgive me my focus on the loss and the losing

The future and past instead of the now

Because this cornucopia...

This world...

This life...

Thank you.

Very much.

 

Nothing Stops the Bleeding

-->

                                                       

Nothing stops the bleeding

I’ve prayed, I’ve rebelled

I’ve tried all my usual medicines

Nothing stops the sting

I’ve failed myself

I was betrayed

I don’t like the man I am anymore

The waves of pain are a roar

I can’t ignore

Nothing stops the corruption

They’re selling kids

And they are shameless

Nothing stops the gossip

It doesn’t matter if I’m wrong or right

Their minds are made up

I don’t see that I’m making a difference

Fighting floods with my bare hands

Nothing stops the shaking

I’m always afraid

I’m always watched

Nothing stops the racing

Always trying to prove myself

Always trying to be something

I don’t see your hands in this darkness

I don’t see any hope for change

Stuck deep underneath my emotions

Like a building collapsed on top of me

Nothing stops the TV

Nothing stops the bombs of hate

No one stops the deportations

No one sees your face

How Long, America?

How long we gonna play this game

Like there's more than one America?

How long are we gonna send people home

To the streets?

How long we gonna keep exporting

Violence, extortion, corruption and gangs?

How much we gonna pay in the factories?

Ensenada T-shirts the factory pays 90 pesos a day that's less than

Five bucks a day just an hour and a half cross the border

(And we talk about $15 an hour as a just wage)

And the Governor of Baja Sur is talking to the farm workers

From Oaxaca, says get back to work

If not you'll get deported

How long we gonna deny

That this is our mess?

How long we gonna build walls on the lines

In our heads?

How long will we say that it's "free and fair trade"

For trickle-up profits to keep workers enslaved

The corporations come in, they have free reign

They buy the elections and they own the terrain

I have this friend who rode the train all the way

From Honduras as a teen

Just following that money stream

No capital, no money, and death in the streets

I met this girl in Guatemala, she was cute as could be

Unfortunately some gangster, he thought the same thing

Asked her to be his he said please

And when she said no he shot out her face

She was fifteen

You know where street gangs started? 
Good old LA.

In Mexico City, this girl shows up she's been raped

The coyotes said "this is Texas" and left her on the street

She paid 3 years' wages to come to the States

And there were so many people I met in the 

Soup kitchen in Guate

Who had just been deported

This system kills people.
This system destroys families.

The best Americans I know are illegals

They work hard, they invest,

They sacrifice for their families

This is how it works:

The gringos sell the guns and buy the cocaine

Wal-Mart pays the bribes and corrupts the state

California deports the Dieciochos and MS13

And Americans hire illegal so they keep on coming

It's simple supply and demand, baby.

We want everything we want; we want it cheap

Law and human cost be damned, it's for the money

Economic growth is a lie if the people don't have a stake

And that's hard to have when your country is ruled by

 8 families

I'm an American citizen

But I ain't earned it,

If we're going to treat countries like colonies

They are citizens the same

And if Dole and Chiquita and Firestone gonna run countries

If they're gonna bully nations to get paid

Well, than who am I to blame their citizens for running away

Who invaded who?
The Marine Corps has toured every place here to Panama

And that's not to mention the thugs from the old CIA

But its unjust businesses who run the extortion ring
And mega-corporations shout out free trade

Because they are making a killing exploiting the weak

That's not to mention US farm subsidies

So tell me, what's a living wage?  

How much are you worth?
I guess that depends on your passport.

How long we gonna play this game

Like there's more than one America?

How long are we gonna send people home

To the streets?

How long we gonna keep dumping the surplus

Of our gluttony on our neighbors' fragile economies?

Look I know one thing:

Love your neighbor as yourself.

America can be proud, she's a good neighbor to

Countries that are far away,

But if you think the United States is or was great

You obviously haven't read Central American History.

I look around, and I see Americans.

Somos Americanos,
And we're all in this shit juntos, waist-deep

And you know, the rich families in Guate, they build their

Walls bigger and bigger and put broken glass on top,

They send their kids to private schools

Because they want to keep out the city that's outside their gates

And the racist Estadounidenses are doing the exact same thing

But everything just perpetuates and nothing will change

Until we all, rich and poor,

Take some pride in our city

Our continent, our people,

Nuestra América,

And we tear down the walls

Break monopolies and the "too-bigs"

And the people are free

I'm an American citizen

And I believe every person from here to Panama

Has earned that right in blood
You can't treat countries like slaves

You can't say we're not the same.

You wallies,

You should be afraid, but not of Latinos
You know there's a cure for that fear, it's called Spanish class

No you shouldn't be afraid of poor people

You should be afraid of justice, that America, one day will pay

Do you think God doesn't hear the cries of the mother deported away from her children?
Do you think God doesn't hear the cries of the worker denied his wages?
Do you think God doesn't hear the cries of the exploited?
Do you think God doesn't hear the cries of the poor?

And to the Donald Trumps, to the ones who feed off of racist fear

Who stir up hatred to get a response

Who manipulate with stereotype and hate

Your fall will be swift and you will be judged 

With the same measure you extended to those outside the system

Thus says the Lord

How long we gonna play this game

Like there's more than one America?

How long are we gonna send people home

To the streets?

How long we gonna keep exporting

Violence, extortion, corruption and gangs?

How much we gonna pay in the factories?


In response to this:

http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-42613178

Bellas Artes

I went to the museum

I rode the metro

And admired all of the fine arts:

The art of walking

The technique of sitting

The beauty of a yawn

Harmonied laughter

Lines of colour

Curling smoothly beneath laughing eyes

There are brushstrokes

In the arcs of walking feet

The swish of jeans

Falling waves of falling hair

And the way we position ourselves

Around each other on the train

Beauty and desperation

Splashes of red and blue

The shade and shape

Of a nose or cheekbone.

The First Heaven: Oklahoma Storm

The peace opens when the winds

Section drones down to a dull moan

The thunder clap applause rumbles off

Like a freight train

The eye, eyes up, run outside

When-the-alarms-go-off Oklahoma

Feel the West, the weight, the

Breeze of the Rockies, heat of the plains

Lift up your sails

We will build sailboats of popsicle prayer

Sticks with a cross on top

Hoping that You'll take us up

Walking around in this cielo

The first heaven

This wholly ground

Beneath our kicks

Caught up in the rapture, the great

In between

The virga score stretched across

Horizontal lines the tracks

The moan

The hop-a-train temptation let's see

Where we go

We're all the fall leaves

Newspapers flopping around the Metro

Faded headlines dimly calling for

Attentions affections

The silence

Are you not interested in me?

See you not my

Grand humanity?
Or am I past my date of issue?

I fear it

I may fall in love or judge

Or find empathy

I'm a head-on-the-shoulder but also
A shoulder-to-the-plow

Shoulder of the road passing by

No place to rest a( )head

Chasing

While the storm breathes passion

And barometric pressure

Did we forget it?

Numbing games, numbing jobs

Numbing drugs, numbing loves

Nothing as sweet as the rain on the skin

The dancing lights reflecting on

Slick streets and windshields

It makes my heart pirouette inside me.

Lines

I seem to have forgotten my lines...

Walk with me parallel a while

Pickup perhaps then I'll remember

I have no steady, no gyroscope to keep me up

At night the sleepcycle rides

     circles under my eyes

I haven't decided how to draw us

All of us--everyone we meet--

Intersect at certain points,

Moments of meaning

Millions of points where we touch, hold hands

Share a song, kiss, secret, or glance

Sometimes we run parallel for a time

Walking a bold line through space time

As everything spins we manage to keep step

But it's all temporary

Our made-in-China shoes scuff the graph

     paper as we approach infinity

And what nonsense is that

A closeness, a net?, a communion, or an empty

     space, a universal alone eternity?

I scribble along fast like a polygraph lie as I, trying

     not to forget to breathe

Trying not to veer wildly like my chestbeat

     and double back, cross myself,

My God I've been here before

I was hoping we could tie the knot

But the telephone line was not long enough

You ride along another axis now,

Existing, loving, singing, unseen

I always dreamed of your trajectory

Plotting it out, stoking you to dream

Your truck spiraled out

A flat line, an ellipsis

Of rocks in the desert, memorial gardens

I take pictures

Make five-year plans

See lines in everything:

Handprints, walls, sunsets, trees

Each barcode a stanza,

Every vine and weed draws shapes

And you and me

We part here, branching out like

     family trees approaching infinity

And although like particles we may

     collide, we will never occupy the same

     space and time

At best our lines run tangent

But not yet, I reach

You're out of reach

You're gone

And I'm still writing on writing on moving out past the sea

Living, yes, writing reading speaking moving always moving

She Doesn't Stop Dancing

She doesn't stop dancing
A spin, a smile,
A shuffle,
A plate, an order,
She twirls out
Corner diner
Fast food and pop music on the TV
Red seats with black-starred tables
Simple Döner
But this,
This was ballet
A song on her lips,
A smile on her face
And I wanted to go back to my own
Food service days
The rhythms of orders up
And orders taken
The pulse of work the rush

Text

A text message before bed
Means
I'm trying to share this with you
I wish you were here

Unemployed (Jobless Immigrant)

This week I applied for a visa to Canada, not my own.
This week
I played my song on Television.
This week I defeated a computer virus.
This week I took photographs for the National Theater's
version of the Mahabharata at a closed premiere for the
Indian ambassador.
I translated for a Finnish band at a concert.
I translated a 57 year-old acrobat's prayer.
I taught poetry to two of my friends.
I invited my friend to lunch
But ended up in a government office
Translating a form together.
I taught English.
I studied Kyrgyz.
I cheered my students as they danced,
Sang my songs in the park with a professional friend,
I wrung out my laundry with my hands.
I played frisbee for television.
I registered four people for an orphan conference.
I pitched names for a new business.
I pitched a film to a sponsor.
I cooked for a crowd.
I recorded songs.
I shared my story with students.
I sang to God with my friends and
I organized a picnic in the foothills beneath the mountains.
I gave relationship advice.
I wrote 10 songs
And a poem.

And I still ain't got no job.

On the Bus

Work ends around 10
Sleep at one am
Up at six
A known face
Carrying pots full of things
Cooking
"The pay is good"
Always running
Drooping breasts
Slouched eyes out
Out the window
Not much to say
Repunch the password into the phone four or five times
No new messages
Ring
Around eyelashes

War is Sexy

This poem is a response to a Shepard Fairey painting, Grenade.  


You've got a grenade

Where your head should be

You're a danger

To this family

Stroke your neck

Kiss your steel lips

War is sexy baby

Until we're all little bits

But maybe we deserve it.

On the Passing of CD Wright

For JL and Georgia

The poets are all dying

Or perhaps

We only notice them when they are old

It seems the greats are all gone,

We pretenders scratch in the dirt,

Hanging our heads,

Trying to muster up the ego to

Put down the words,

To pretend that poetry still matters,
And then, to edit,

To put on the mask, the forgotten art,

Chasing the lightning

That we once felt at our fingertips.

We too are growing old,

The ink spinning out of the plasma

From a tube in the arm

But death is always with us.

How much ink is left?

Altar love.
Bone love.

Grave love.

Thorn love.
After love.

Altar love.

After( )light.

"Pass with care."

An Honest Liturgy for the Americas

Our father

Who art desire

Holy are my feelings

Let them be fulfilled

Let me have my way

Even if it takes taking out a little credit

Fudging edges or burning some bridges

Lead me not into frustration

But deliver me from guilt

For Thine is the pleasure

And the climax

And the salve

And the earplug

Forever and ever

Amen.  

The Cold

I've set out the hay

In the shit-filled cave inside

But there's no sign of a comet or

Falling star coming

To obliterate the dark.

They call holidays an option for a reason...

It's cold.

A house in schism.

They're only taking women and children in the shelters.

There's a warm glow on the hearth,

And tears running down cheeks

Songs, jingle bells.

A flush on cheeks, warm greetings

And raised voices

Everything is red and green.

Envy and greed

And hope deferred.

I wanted...

My stomach twists and I have

Trouble breathing

This year has got to be different.

You come home and then you go home.

Are these birth pains or some game of throes

Shaking life withdrawal-like,

Another year dies homeless body on ice.

The red ribbon marks our sacred wounds, knots inside

The evergreen sucks life but it's done and gone.

An advent waiting for it all to be over.

Lights stretch a constellation along

The gossiping eaves of each house

Where the ghosts of Christmases past

Remind us of abuse, embarrassment, dashed hopes, and

The tinsel bite of arguments

Passed along like old fruitcake.

The commercial promises--vanity,

Holidays are about family,

Oh how I love thee, let me keep the

For Christ's sake,

Count the divorces.

Comfort and joy,

Not for us on the outside.

Weeds and Wishes

Scatter shot gunshy
It's not like I was sowing wild oats as much as just
Tossing seeds where I'd thought they might grow
Not too much left of my heart though
Trying to put the script back together
Love's an excuse to get hurt

I try on the lines...
It all feels like Dejá Vú
If there's such thing as a "one"
I blew that boat to kingdom come eight years gone 
Gather.  Wince.  Repeat. 
There are things I do when I love someone.
Things that remind me that I've loved before, but even
Acquaintances have their pet names and rituals

I've never been unfaithful
But now I know I'm capable.
No one has asked for all of me
In quite some time
And now?
Time to gather up the dandelions
Blown at passers by.

I pretty much like everyone
At least I try.
Usually loving someone
Means I stop trying to make them mine.

They tell me I should marry
I want to
The girls ask me how old I am
If I have a family,
If I want to marry an American girl,
I know what all the questions mean.
But I've made it 28 years without
Breaking more than a handful of hearts
Or sleeping (in the sexual sense) with anyone's current
Or future wife.

Hope is a thing with fangs
That tears at the soul
And won't leave you alone.
The what-if-parade of
Next year's models
Will catch you and not let go.
Possibilities
Tearing at your throat.
And I've almost never seen a marriage
That I would want.

I've almost found room in my heart
To fit a whole world inside
It bursts, and I don't know how
To make it mine
And what do I have to give?
A broken wish, a scattered dandelion.

Hope is a thing with fangs
That tears at the soul
And won't leave you alone.

Love in Six Acts

Act One:  A Deal with the Devil

Deep blue eyes caught me on the brink.

Starting to sink,

I made a deal

To let myself fall,

Distraction from the pain,

A cynical calculated crush.

Next to your name in my phone I wrote "Beautiful."

Tears without explanation

You reeled me in, and

You kept your distance,

And you never once mentioned your boyfriend.

Act Two:  Translation

Summer transformed frost into melody

I am taken aback by how well you understand me

Plowing through songs, trying on lines,

Debating their merits, and trying not to

Notice the smooth curves of your sides.

A forgotten heart began to sing a new language.

And it was ours, and finally mine.

Freedom, passion, voices rise.

And mingle in a open sky.

Act Three:  The Fall

I entertained the idea of a kiss,

And that idea flowered into a near-obsession;

Just

a

kiss.

We just kept walking, tired.

Sat down by the stars streaming by

In the river below.

And I began to touch,

Longing for that kiss,

That thing you wouldn't give,
And I took your heart,

And your body in my hands.

Innocent you invited me to stay over;

I ran away, knowing my limits and afraid--

It's the hardest I've ran since the Garden State--

When I came back no one was home.

No one knows.

And it was then I realized we could probably

Never manage just friends.

And it was then I realized that I'm still the

Selfish man I've always been.

Act Four:  Forgiveness

We sat on opposite ends of the bench.

I know you had flashbacks to that night and maybe

You still do.

It was the end.  For the time being.

But you made me cry with the things you said.

And in the phone I changed beautiful to "forgave."

Act Five: 

Boundaries

There are things we don't talk about.

Things we don't say.

Lulls in the conversation where we look away.

Act Six:  More than Just Friends

Just friends...but when you smile

By my side on the mashrutka,

It's all I can do not to lean in for a kiss.

The ropes course, fearless you showed me a new side of you

And it keeps on coming,

Each day something new, after all this time,

How much more do I not know about you?

I decided to go to the mountains

To say good-bye, or perhaps to say

I didn't know how to.

I tried to explain all this,

You didn't care

You just wanted to be there.

So I put my arms around you,

Together in the twilight,

I think I could've let you go,

But then the men who followed us, the

Fear of losing you,
Was too much.

We decided to date.

A week later you said you never wanted to speak again

That wasn't true.

But the dating was done. 

And what now?

I guess I'm just thankful

That you're still around.

And maybe this time,

Now that we understand

We're not meant for marriage together

We're learning how to love

Wings

I used to think faith was a thing with wings,
perchin in the soul,
Just one little scare and it's all ready to fly the coop
and give up hope.
That if you touched those little wings,
They'd flake off in your hands
Like dust.

I used to think that Atheist books and rated-R films were all gonna send me straight to hell,
That if my windshield cracked or shattered,
I'd get bugs in my teeth, but you know,
I think the thing that been killing my soul more than all that is this little
Voice in my head telling me that my heart and soul ain't somethin
I can bring to church or work.
That God's a oversenstive model that can't handle
What I really think about her.  You know,
People don't like to see all that personal shit.
I've been lying to myself 'n God.
You know, I can be pretty good, I could convince most anyone,
Got the answers, know what there is to know.
And honestly I'm terrified that answers boy is gonna shut up the poet.
Concrete my eyes so that I won't ever be able to see the wind again,
Just mirrors and diagrams and smoke.
I can be pretty good, and the worst part is,
I convinced myself that I wasn't the bad guy at all.
That's when I started to fall.

The God I met is a lot more like a dragon than a dove.
Greedy, terrifying, awe-inspiring, beautiful.
And I'm gonna be honest, it's a lot easier for me to
Go before him when I'm not alone and I don't feel like a screwup, got my
Full armor against God on, all my good deeds, my list of sacrifices, and all my
Abstinences, it's all trash.
I'm still afraid that voice like thunder
Will burn me up in smoke.
And I'm not talking about Hell, I don't know nothing bout all that.
But I know I'm gonna get burned, by the hell within or the flames without.

I realized all the debaters were just talking themselves round in circles. 
That the best apologetics is probably just an apology.
I've been hesitant to put my pen to the paper because I'm afraid to do God an injustice
And I'm afraid that if you knew that I like God you won't like me.
All my prayers are like paper cranes with broken wings,
Ain't nobody flying if things left up to me.
But you know I realized that butterflies have been around a long time
They survived the dinosaur holocaust and
The wars and they're still flying and they're not
Even all streamlined like swallows for catching the breeze,
Just a two-dimensional piece of paper,
A simple kid like me.
And I realized that while perhaps putting too much of my fingerprints all over this thing
Could give it a broken wing
Faith ain't going anywhere,
The problem's always been me. 
And even when I shove my Bible to the back of the closet and stop
Praying, I know, and I know what I've seen.
It's hard to look a dragon in the eye and forget what you've seen,
It's hard to hold a hummingbird on your fingertips and not change.
It's hard to look in the mirror at me.
It's harder for me to not believe.

Dig

Dig

Chink of the shovel in your wrist

            as it hits rock

Resounding aftershocks

Of the windstorm that blew off

            all our fig leaves

 Rotting fruit left in the dirt

The whittlin' knife on the bark

The cutter's searching

Who the hell am I?

Yet assuming the answer already

The tunnels beneath molehills

The world of earthworms

Brutus Jones lost in formless fearings (himself)

Why the hell did I cuss over spilled coffee?

Why the hell does the earth sprout mountains in Colorado

And swallow Israelites in the wilderness?

The heart of

            Kurtz's intended and denial

The heart of

            Rick Warren leading us in a rousing chorus

            of "I'll never screw up again God!"

            Such large lies.

Dig, damn it

Don't get lost in those stupid

            lines some boy trying to be clever

Get underground and throw away your

            girl pants

The mountains are ribs like an ark

Follow the veins of quartz

            until you find that place

            where you are golden

            That place where you realize that

            Gold tastes as good as granite

            And does about as much good

                        As the stones they threw at Stephen

Slit the sentry's throat

Cut the breakers

Dim the lights

Kierkegaard's burning theater

No, cut the drama

Who the hell are you?

            (not all that glitters)

Climb down the to its end

            (Why?  You must ask Why? of yourself)

Suspended in the midst of every imperfect

            motive

Every heavenly smile you faked while

            biting your lip the blood, the taste

            you were too afraid to take

Killing those I hate over and over and over and over

            (In my mind)

And having sex with sisters

            (Or at least their photos online)

On Saturday I found myself huddled in the

            corner of one of the underground magazines at

            Fort Pickens

            (This was after I murdered the sentry

            And realized after taking his place

            That I was guarding an empty temple)

            Somewhere beneath the vaulted ceilings of my left rib cage

                        My eyes were weary and the remains of

                        Emily's bird lie scattered

                        (I had gotten hungry)

But at any rate, Ivan was howling outside

            pushing pine needles through trees

            like toothpicks in sandwiches

And I realized I'd been down here

            for quite some time and well,

            it's terribly lonely to be alone in your heart

            and the best defenses I could offer

            were an obsolete fort in a world of smart bombs

            that's right world, take your best shot,

I am crouched beneath the wall

            wind howling and bullets whizzing

            Ryan said standing is like jumping on knives

The charges deep at the base of the dam

            And if I press this button

The trees from St. Helens

The cow on a roof

And tightly sealed shaken up

            Emotions will foam through town

            And I'm not really sure how my friends

                        would take it if they saw who I really

                        was, if I was the things inside and

                        not a .

Somewhere north of my spleen,

            I began to realize        

That that Amy Grant song about turning the Titanic around
            was about 80 years too late

That if Dickinson's bird was hatched in here

            it sure as hell didn't come from me

Basically I can't control myself

The "very things I want to do"
I write preachy poems about.

And God if you don't kick my sorry

            ass over that wall

I will never live

            and never care again

And if I don't stand up like a man

Then I really think Myshkin and Jesus

            Were idiots.

Quite frankly I'm scared

If I slaughter the circus animals performing

            in the temple courts

Reader, as we pass on the sidewalk

            This time I don't divert my eyes

            Might be able to see

                        that right now I'm lost, broken and insecure

            Lifting my foot out of the boat

                        because I'm sick and tired

                        of covering for God when I think He should

                                    come through

            Cuz God I don't understand what the hell You're doing

                        and it hurts like hell

            I still believe just not like a child

            I'm coming out hands up

I've spent twenty years drawing designs in mud

            If you're willing Lord, come inside

            I'll wait

I think I can see Your fingerprints somewhere

            around the bottom, where you were

            the clay is changed

But I'm not drawing any more pictures tonight

You've broken my collarbone

Now come make things right.