we broke the wishbone
you got the wish
i got a splinter
that's how it goes
fare faced grinning fool
oh, how easy it'd be
for me to be jealous of you, brother
the boy who couldn't be stopped
the man that the wind whispers to
you are magic
you are busy lights on an empty stretch of I80
the swell of drum beats over silence
the giggle-fit tear stains on the universe's cheek
wide eyed man-cub
the world tried to steal you
all those years ago
you defiant son-of-a-gun
refused to bow to even death
the laugh lines at the end of a blank heart rate
thanks for never leaving me behind
you take nothing seriously
except dreams and funerals
and the call of the moon
"no matter where you are in life
no matter how noisy it gets
or how badly it hurts
you have to throw on the brakes now and then
just slow down
and turn your eyes to the sky
like a ravid coyote
howl at the moon"
"remind existence that you won't go quietly"
when i was six
dad told me that he and mom
had made us out of stardust
and beer caps
that they made us out of treasure
you're my treasure
and the temple of my dreams
you're my map
my back pack
my adventure hat
and the voice in my head that laughs
and calls me a dumb ass
we are not human beings on a spiritual endeavor
but spiritual beings
bound to a human medium
how very thankful i am to be tethered to you
A Fictitious Factory of Modernity
The vibrancy of youth now succumbs to the anesthetic of indifference, like testicular feminisation of the masses. I often contemplate the indifference of cacti in Arizona, where handle-bar moustaches curl with the worldly-wisdom of motorcycle gangs.
So, strip meat from the perimeter of the wishbone and feel the waves of nocturnal celebrations, as we slide into a deep winter slumber.
You will waken from a crisis of identity and be emancipated from stereotypical cavities where thorny plantations thrive amidst unforgiving terrains.
Snap it in half, and you will see mystical Arabian genie’s arise from magical carpets. Oh, one more thing: I am not a detective.
That perfect letter.
Fork in the road.
Emptied glass awaiting a refill.
If you look close enough, tiny prints of sparrows in sand.
The half of the chromosome couple half of us don't have.
A question we ask, again and again.
Second to last- almost there- in the alphabet.
Coupled with a L, and you can describe
the way in which what is done is done.
Modest X. Kiss kiss. Legs closed.
Y or N? Yes, of course.
It's a peace sign,
Y- a Greek letter- joined the Latin alphabet after
the Romans conquered Greece
in the first of all centuries we've counted by their numerals.
Y is a double agent- a vowel, a consonant,
Before Y was given to us, we couldn't talk of someone smiling happily
or know to help someone in need quite desperately.
Before Y we couldn't ask for the answers we wanted.
I don't think we could have been happy.
I’m getting the hell out of Salt Lake City.
Good riddance to your rude brood of rug rats
screeching in my ear with their ‘gift’ of blue tongues
from chewing slimy gummy octopus blueberry tentacles
then blowing chunks on my new cable wool sweater.
Goshdarn! I’ve had enough greasy little hands laying
their Pig & A Jelly Jar chicken waffle fry sauce palm prints on
the sharia dresses you people made me buy because
the low cut form fitting dresses I like just ain’t ‘modest’ enough.
Well, I say, fuck the Joseph Smith Day Care Center,
fuck The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,
fuck the Book of Mormon, fuck the Doctrine and Covenants,
fuck the Pearl of Great Price, fuck Thomas S. Monson and the
rest of the Board, fuck the Second Great Awakening,
fuck all the alumni of Brigham Young University,
fuck Utah (except for Arches, I especially love the Delicate Arch
because it reminds me of a turkey wishbone),
and fuck the unruly offspring of all you polygamous,
sister-porking, redneck, pale face, round eye, gwailo, o-fay,
buckra, honky, bolillo, whitie, milky, redneck, trailer trash,
snow white, casper, albino monkey, twig nose, tight ass, frosty,
marshmallow, klansmen, wigger, pancake, wonderbread,
cocksauce, mayo, saltine, frosted flake, hillbilly, egg white,
secret underwear sporting, blue eyed devilcrackers.
I don't give a flying fuck how bad my husband needs your vote.
Y'all can kiss my black ass goodbye.
Kindly forward my final paycheck to:
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, D.C. 20500
You know President Obama is lying when...
An ode to the letter y
A letter that holds a word
A fork in the road
The beginning of a question
The break of a tree
The arch of fingers signing I love you
Or rock on
An empty martini glass
An empty valley
One letter full of possibilities.
I am the turkey
You found with the palm of your hand
I am the pigeon
That fooled you for a dove
I am a weasel
I told you before-
My lungs are broken
Like his discarded wishbone
I am that word on the tip of your tongue
I missed my cue
When this cape got stuck to the dangly bit
It was shining
And smelled like "good morning"
I am abandoning my skeleton
I don't like the skin
That it put on today
I took a second helping of determination
Wake me in an hour-
I'll be resting
Hold the phone-
Regret made my stomach eat itself to death
Don't Dilly Dally, Dear
I'm the rolling pen
That now lives
In your underwear drawer
I guess you'll never see me again
I'm retracting that statement
Like her claws from my Quacker Factory sweater
Sometimes we all need
A little extra support
Without you I'm a jellyfish
I painted my face this morning
And now it's swimming inside my black tears
The proof is on the front of his shirt
I am your pillow that thinks it's a shrink
I told your hair
It needs to find a new direction in life
Don't believe me?
I'll lie back down
But give me a second-
I'm in the gutter right now
And need to clean myself off
Don't worry, Goose Darling-
A little Vitamin E oil
Will restore your immaturity
From the poop joke
That's giving you crows feet
Oh how I wish
My fossil was void of down feathers
But I frequently find
That I'm tickled inside
And how else would I fly in my dreams
That perfect letter, The wishbone,
fork in the road, empty wineglass.
The question we ask over and over.
The car hit
a stone wall.
I wanted you like a child wants their mam.
The wishbone broke
just snapped in half.
You rang me to make sure I was okay.
My head span.
"A little concussed, I think. I'm grand."
Torsos in windows,
and a wishbone stick.
Sickly, spider trees
rustle in the night breeze
Streetlight beams find me.
Nose growing cold.
Walking from home
when I was three years old
I wished on a shooting star that
daddy and mommy would stop yelling
that they would stop hurting and love
when I was eight years old
I wished on a broken wishbone that
mommy and daddy would fall in love
that they wouldn't dwell on the past
when I was nine years old
I wished on a swaying dandelion that
mommy would marry this new daddy
and they would never hurt each other
when I was ten years old
I wished on pretty birthday candles
that new daddy would stop drinking
and that mommy would stop loving this man only for his sober side of life
when I was eleven years old
I wished on loose eyelashes that
daddy would give us back to mommy
and wouldn't force us to live with him
when I was twelve years old
I wished on a vintage wishing well
that daddy and his wife would stop
picking at my flaws like futile weeds
when I was thirteen years old
I wished on a weightless feather
that my brother wouldn't leave me
alone with daddy and fake mommy
when I was fourteen years old
I wished on the clock that read 11:11
that I wouldn't have to be here alone
that the judge would favor my mom
and send me back to her love forever
now I'm fifteen years old
I have nothing left to wish on
but I wish I could stop feeling this way
and stop forming scars on my body
when the days and nights are rough
and I wish that I could stop thinking
about life without my existence in it
and learn to love myself and make it
through the night as best as I can
and that maybe one day
I'll make it out alive.