Middle class tragicomedy turning darker everyday
breaching past the line of typical dysfunctional
with every dark blue bottle of vodka and
orange plastic pharmaceuticals fraudlently prescribed
black swollen bruises on mom's face
fucked up you asleep drink in hand
with the tv still on drink
while mom cried in the youngest's child's bed
the eldest kicked out for doing drugs
me on the bathroom floor learning how to disembowl a razor
and carve it into my flesh.
West Texas camping trip when you bought a motorcycle
and said have fun
and I crashed into a ditch
and snapped my leg in half
and the helmet flew off
did you know that if you hit your head hard enough
everything before and after will feel like a dream?
and that's when it all got darker
as a 15 year kid dying in West Texas
having lost his will to live 1 year earlier on a plane leaving California
waking up in an ambulance
remembering nothing but knowing two things.
My name is Kyle, something bad has happened.
Born again in a hospital bed
surrounded by strangers claiming to be family.
Leg bones snapped in half
then drilled with titanium
and the pain never went away
not for a second
you took all of my pain pills
you held the medical bills over my head
you told me that it was my fault that I crashed
and yes it was my fault
but I didn't buy the fucking bike
and I didn't want to ride the fucking bike
and you can say whatever you want
because I'm crippled now
and my memory is broken
and I have a headache that doesn't go away
but deep in this broken body of mine
there's a silence that speaks for itself
there's a sadness that doesn't hate itself anymore
there's a tear that refuses to fall
there's a hatred reserved only for you
there's a love born out of spite
a beautiful tortured brilliant love
with room for everyone but you my loving father
my loving oblivious father
sick brained hateful father
and me your victim limping away
from the scene of your crime
that was my childhood.
Hope doesn't perch.
Hope isn't a smiling face
among a dismal crowd.
Hope isn't the light at the end
of the tunnel.
Hope is when the crows
grow full from the carrion of
a dead lamb and rest.
Hope is when the old man
having forgotten himself years ago
falls asleep one last time.
Hope is everything you've needed
after you didn't need it anymore.
Hope is the time after the noose tightens
and before you fade away.
Leaves dying not dead burning orange and
only fall to freeze soon instead
not even the sun and the cirrus painting gold
a sky too tired hold
much anything but of black or blue
can free my mind from thoughts of you
cars grumble home fences rust a little
stray cat sleeps alone we laugh and giggle
but every Sunday has to end
and Saturn's people wonder
if they'll ever love again
for them night is only 5 days away
before the drinks are poured
and the people come out to play.
silence sounds like something
and the darkness never cries
they believe in everything
but the tedium never dies.
Not so far away girl
still so impossibly far
why must we wait until sunrise
to fall asleep?
Why is this beauty only conceivable
after the bottle dripdrips empty?
sinking deeper and deeper into saturn's orbit
youthful vibrant fluffed up peacocks
clucking on about research chemicals
and music festivals and last night and 6 days before
about banking and obamacare
and oh, my they're all talking
all at once
talktalktalking about this this this and that
not even asking for audience
soundwaves echo into nothingness
screaming lungs void of substance
unheard unimportant words
and oh, my, what a tedious thing
the night has become
but to stay at home alone
would be even more unspeakable.
Outside the party across the street
there is a tree
splayed out overhead and undergound
soaking up carbon growing tall still growing
slightly sad tree breathing in the silence of our sighs
dancing fallen leaves wrapping up the deadspace around us
deadworld space where we two sit under the edge
of revelry and absurdity
laughing, drunk, with the moon and the stars and
for just a second
slightly less impossible.
What are you getting at?
Poetically dispassionate ink
pouring out of your mouths.
Standing half-naked here
with your nasty bits hanging out and dangling.
Fifth grade pissing contest,
tape measure microphone.
'His darkness is bigger than his!'
'Well yeah but his is darker.'
maybe you're a grow-er and not a show-er.
Half-poised, microphone voice-box
tell me now, what parchment does
your pen vomit onto?
Caligraphy college degrees.
Upper-middle class tragicomedy.
pretending to know
just how deep a razor blade can go.
Red ink looks close enough to blood I guess.
This vast sea of poetic words,
snotgreen and scrotumtightening.
With your absolute knowledge
of what Joyce was getting at
as he layed there dying and blind
imploring to the world:
"Does nobody understand?"
What awful things has the world done to you
to beget these howls of pain?
What about you
does this dimlylit place,
with it's black coffee and chicken sandwiches,
When was the last time your world was worth destroying?
How did you sleep last night?
Have you ever heard a bone snap in half?
What is your first thought when holding a sharp object?
What will these words prove
when you find that no one's listening?