the other heads tell me

that lightning never strikes twice in the same place

as if

bolts don't kiss me on the forehead every morning

and as if

my seven year bubblegum stomach

hasn't been twirling stale pink scents around my fingers

from before i placed it in my mouth.

everything has a second head. 

the split scalped black cat from across the street 

mumbles hot blooded supersitions

in only two of my ears.

the other two lay in bed at night

wondering when everything will all flare up:

the thunder that echoes

through the vaulted ceilings of bloated bodies,

and the endless ladders on the runway

propped up under the throat of the moon.

softly and surely

in whispered bolts

i'll break the mirror again.