Testo Wallet Falls

I'll run till my wallet falls out.
I lost a switch blade running across a field one time.

My ghost?
A bad spelling of my wording till the date that I go bad by.

The half baby pour that wells up in my navel
reminds me of children coughing from coma's up wing tips a tophat or both.
Their loosed teeth on their mind,
tuning blood in the mouth
of eighth-grade picture takers.
While knowing too well that their
plaster-cast childhood hand prints
already been hung out to dust
on the yellowing wall of their go-going gone
grandparents house.