ever looked dispassionately
in to the mirror of your life,
to see how limited
the freedom as a human is?

And we'll move into the forest with the pixies
And they eat newspapers for breakfast
And we'll eat newspapers for breakfast
But when they come to take us away
We'll hide below the ocean
And in that bed we'll start to dream
And escape from what we remember

The kind of cars
that I like,
are those 87' monte carlos,
subs
big as aircraft carriers
in the back.

Gold spoke
wheels,
able to turn
holes in the sky.

Chameleon
paint jobs,
green
and full
in the sun,
fading to black
and
glossy
in the shadows.

When I was a teenager,
the kings
used to ride by
in the
monte carlos
with open
windows
letting loose
a humbling roar
so loud
that it
put
ubiquitous vapors
into
the air.

The neighborhood smelled
like the thumping
and the hard hum
of their vibrating
windshields.

The kings
always
let the car slide slowly
in neutral,

and as they took
stock of their domain,
Their glossy gold fronts
made you realize
why gold
was
so important
each tooth looked like
a tablet of commandments.

Our wife-beaters
were
stained with ketchup
and other things
that bleach could never
get out,
and we smelled
funny.

But the kings
wore hawaiian shirts
and smoked
cigars.

The kings
were the preachers.


One of the kings
was Luke's brother,

whenever he stopped at a corner
we'd pile around
putting our fingerprints everywhere
until
he told us
to
"*******,
don't you have any
home-training?"

Luke would stand closest,
squinting
as he leaned on the driver-side
window,
all that bass
hammering
his bones.

"How much
did you pay for it?"
Reggie would ask
from the back,
peeking his head over,
trying to see
the king.

The king would smile,
and say
"enough."

we'd all be rapt.

He'd get a call
on his cellphone,
and we
would come up
with crazy numbers.

Luke didn't even know
how much
was
"enough".

The kings held the secret
of god
and power.

I wanted to be as close to god
as they were,
I wanted to know the secret
to contentment.

I wanted to come back home
with money like
the kings with gold teeth.

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.

Truthfully,
being alone in bed
*****;
I hate waking up
to myself
and nothing like you.

Nothing like your hair.
Your sweet and sour smell of ripe peaches;
Morning breath of cigarettes.

I think about
living in Alaska a lot more
now
than I did then.

I think about trailers with furniture
made by stacking old mattresses
and oil-burning lamps
and suns that die forever
and live forever.

This is how you squeeze
a dollar
outta fifteen cents.

Cut the bottom of the tube
of a toothpaste
and lick the mint jelly
onto a toothbrush.