Emphasize the angle
of motion
toward the tilted child
in the slanted house.
The child grew toward the sound of
a stranger breaking glass in the closet.
There is no easy way to explain
the wound inflicted by those shards
that never left the room
or the wonder that spiraled round
in the shadows
as the velocity of motion
spun out of control
toward the tilted child
in the slanted house -
the child grew quiet -
a crescendo of nothing ness
like the Loch-ness
who          you will never believe lies below our world.

Backbone. Reach for the front.
Divide the periphery
            not
    my        middle.
You bend my balance.

Backbone. Reach for the ground.
Hold on tight
           grow
     roots   strong.
You keep my frame.

Backbone. Reach for my soul.
Spread vertebra by vertebra
              white
      wooden   wings.
You break me.

Backbone.
Spliced in two
un   even
wish
bone.
Rigor of flight
snapped.

The glass fogged slowly
covering the moon.
That pulse way out there, far away-
it looked so distant from the window.
I stared out over the street
black ash of dead fires
rejecting the ghostly light.
Why did I come.
This wasn't what I wanted.
One, two, three -
did I want to see?
the burning paper
glowing an orange hole in my world .
I passed
one, two, three -
did I feel Free?
shorter and shorter
it would be too late.
I breathed.

The last time I sat down with myself
was in the sink
in the dark
penetrating the only creative train I could find.
Coal, cargo...
Robbing words so I didn't have to think
or explain the difference between
'deeming' language and
'demon' language.
From my perspective in the sink,
the retouching of morals
is all circumstantial
because maybe tomorrow I'll save the fire
instead of the human,
you know, save the fire from the human.
That way, I don't have to decide
who's going to burn.

A few swaying tassels
fitted the bearded mask.
Shhh, it said, breath dressed like a shapeless road.
Across the forehead, spiders misspelled
old motifs- creeds etched in sparse silk.
His teeth were dry grass,
threaded through shredded gums.
He painted pipes and drove them to the ground,
to prove history can be easily done.
In a last review, he shaped dried blood
into a hole and wondered
why
his body shrunk,
his life coiled out,
but his eyes looked larger.

When I was younger,
I hoped to be like Andy Warhol.
Everybody like everybody.
I hoped to be like God.
Anyone like Anyone.
I hoped to be somewhere,
with new faces.
I hoped I wouldn't lose mine.
When I was younger,
I walked like Grace Slick.
Someone like Someone.
I walked like caterpillars,
foot after foot, going slow.
I walked like someone
with a place to go.
I walked with no destination .
Now that I’m older,
I hope Andy Warhol didn’t know
I hope God doesn’t know I couldn’t see him.
I hope somewhere leads to one face,
I hope I can pick mine out among a million.
Now that I’m older,
I walk and thank Grace Slick.
I walk and don’t step on caterpillars, squirming.
I walk and go somewhere,
Walking until I reach Myself.

They chop and burn God's growth,
all sworn under his oath.
Guns in hand,
another Promise Land
just to wipe out the good
because they are told they could.
How are we equal
when Big Brother puts down fights?
Don't bother shielding your rights.
Believe terrorists are everyone.
Your neighbor. Your priest. Yourself.
The one percent we are slaves to,
feed us a chemical brew.
Let's sit back like sheep -
Now don't complain or weep.