Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a ****** through
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a *** getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or
Something like
That, I don’t
Remember
Really.
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see
The
Marks
From
The
Needle.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
The TVs so loud that
You can’t hear me knocking
On your door.
But that doesn’t matter,
Because you don’t want to
Hear the door, because
Who’s telling you what?
Good news is finite.
And you heard it
All, you suppose.
Bad news has a monopoly
On the news now, from
Here to the moon, and
Bad news?
It squeezes itself into
Something as pure and simple
As a hospital room
Filled with newborn babies.
Because even when
You haven’t had food to ****
You cry because
You have to ****
And your Mom
Finds it cute.
The wailing, all
That suffering that can’t
Be worded, pain like
A gallon of water
Without the gallon
To hold it, it sprawls
Baby…
Wah!
Wah!
Wah!
But you’ll find your words one day,
And talk real nice,
And maybe go to college,
But guess what baby?
There are no survivors.
So what do we do?
We turn the TV louder.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
She’s wearing
Her favorite dress.
It’s the one that’s all black with
The pink dahlias running
Up the side.
She closes
The door
And smiles.
It’s the kind
Of smile that talks, it says,
“I can read minds”.
There’s a burning in both
Of our guts, so she grabs
The bottom of that dress,
(The one I love)
And stretches her arms to the
Sky until it’s on the floor.
Now,
Its just laundry.
She holds the box of Lo Mein.
We’re drunk and wandering, which is
The best thing to do
When you’re drunk because
The world spins
Beneath you.
It’s like those moving
Sidewalks in the airport.
So we’re laughing, and
Stumbling, and she’s eating,
And the streets of Montreal are
Shining from the day’s rain.
I want to be
Here
With her
Forever,
But she finishes the noodles,
And the peanut sauce,
And dumps the box somewhere
In a garden.
Now,
Its just trash.
There are babies in the park.
I’m smoking a joint
With some French guy
And she’s lying on a blanket in the grass, she’s
Still giving me that smile, and the guy is
Laughing in his accent, and the Moms
Hold their babies, and far off,
There’s a Hobo
Singing to himself,
And he’s wearing a ragged dress,
And picking at the trash,
And the air feels like bathwater, and
I look around and the babies keep on crying,
And my love,
She won’t
Stop
Smiling.
Now,
I’m too **** scared to say
What we become.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
In her room, there are Christmas lights
Taped to the walls like
Tiny electric waves.
Beneath the lights there are Polaroid
Pictures; in one of them,
She is leaning against a pillar in the
42nd street station, and there is a
Rust-colored circle over her face from
Where the film was over-exposed.
It looks like a
Cigarette burn.
Between the lights and the
Photographs, I can’t even tell
The real color of her room. My eyes
Trail along to the pictures for a
Slice of wall, but as soon as I reach an
Opening, the lights
Blind me.
I run my fingers against the scarred skin on
The tops of her hands, along the parts
That were over-exposed to the world,
Because although we try not to take in
Any more than we can hide,
Sleeves only go as far as
Your palms.
Behind the Christmas lights, I imagine
Her room is light blue, but
I’ll never see, and she’ll
Never show me.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC