I like to think
that when Oscar painted
Camille,
it was their best time.

Afterward
Camille
becomes a blur on the beach.

But in all her detail
and naivete,
Oscar paints her
the last time
he really sees her.

They had coffee
and played with each other's feet
underneath millions of tables
during that time.

Home is
a hurt place;
the cut umbilical cord;
the roaring in the ears
and
the solitude;
what a person becomes
when
they build something
inside of
themselves;
crying;
thirty miles away
of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
crossing the train tracks
not knowing that there was such a thing
as crossing the train tracks
before
you crossed them;
a swing set
swinging
forever;
9/11
and Ma's
in the living room
bawling
while
Grandma
holds her
knowing
that those two towers
meant something,
more
than
just two pillars
and travelling back with Ma
as she weaves her way
with a tissue
and blotted eyes
to the day
her brother
and father
went to the top
of the trade centers
and stradled the railing
almost flying;
grandad
having a heart attack
because of his daily morning
tonic:
two eggs,
lemon juice
and a cigarette,
before
the umbilical cord
was cut;
Uncle
not being around,
disappearing
right after
Grandad
died;
dad
beating the **** out of
Ma
one night;
is Ma,
Joci,
Grandma
and Me;
getting your *** kicked
by Gary
and Ma
sending you back out
to get some more;
fear
and biting nails;
distant;
thirty miles
away of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
a distance;
being so hot with blood
in an all-white classroom,
while somebody asks you:
"Have you ever been shot?";
isolation;

Home is
hatred,
a slow growing,
well-tuned,
well-constructed
reinforced
aluminum bat
that dings
the ribs.

Home is the sound
of hollowness,
the ability to ding.

Home is a distance.
Home is further.
Home is the hurt place
inside the ribs.

I think I'm suffering from something. This morning I woke up feeling a weight on my chest. I felt like a compass at the core of the earth, it was like all that iron was just throwing me for 360 degrees. And I realized what it was, like, I'm just trying to be successful, you know? And that hunger couples with fear so much for me. I'll wipe my eyes, and lay in bed in a scared stasis. A feeling drops through me *******. First it's a desperate feeling for action, to do something, to be productive. Then this desperate complacency washes against it. A rock, a body, a me.

I be dapping
random *******
in the club.

A ***** walk up to me with a beer,
throws me a hand
and I dap him up.

We smile
and I don't even
know dude.

I swear
I've
signed Peace Treaties
in the club.

It's crazy, because sometimes
the girls
be acting foul
and cold;
even when you try
to grind
handing
them
a beer
as
a
peace-offering
they look back at you
across
demilitarized zones.

"I don't really like sports."

I feel like
you've been mis-advertising
yourself.

On your profile
your likes are:
Soccer.
Basketball.
Football.
And
Rugby.

"That's cool."

I'll say anything to get
a girl
to let me stick my hands
in her pants;
even if it means
sacrificing
morals
and
sports.

I gave her the pill,
her eyes fluttered
into oblivion,
ravens in her face.

Her eyelashes
became
tree fingers
branching
outwards
and covering her body.

When she put her fingers
to her lips,
they were tiny roots
and her mouth
zipped out.

her tongue;
gone.

teeth;
gone.

All there was,
was black soil
in tiny clods
that moved
with earthworms,
the fingers of god
in her mouth,
quietly working.

The pill
made her
earth.

Heartbreak is a crazy monster
that trembles
when it fights.