a good day consists of the poems you let me write
behind your ear
down your neck
between your legs

a good year keeps the letters I tore apart
behind your back
down the hatch
between the lines

a good life makes the books hard to write
behind the scenes
down the aisle  
between the promises

a life without him
means one with you

a good idea may be one without you
but a life without you
is not a life at all

Curled, dead hair
strewn across yellowing cracked porcelain
of the bathroom floor.
Cold, artificial light
tinges blond locks blue. Cracked window
contorts the sunset’s view.

It all started with
a bang. They say
the first sound that ever was,
was “bang.”

My dad says the same,
that it was followed by a
clap. It vibrated through his
mouth and rattled his teeth
crooked. He said he saw stars.

The aftershock made its way
down his arm, and the bubbles in his blood
reached for another bottle. He watched a cascade
of glass fall from his fist, and million new universes
formed as they twinkled on the floor.

It started with a bang,
but the clap from the smack
across an untouched face
fell on deaf ears. Creation is carved
on the walls of my veins. I wish
you could see the bruised blood.