This is a haiku
Or so the poet assumes
One can't be too sure

Hey there, you, driving the lawnmower,
sitting atop your shiny red toy--
state of the art, the best of the best
in lawn technology.

My meager fields are no longer in disarray
since you came around;

Tell me, Mr. Lawnmower,
Do the aspiring clovers and rogue dandelions irritate you?

Is their determination to survive a mere inconvenience,
Or is that the slight trickle of fear running down your back?

What about the bird's nest perched perilously in the gutter
and the rusted horseshoes nesting in my flower bed?
The disused swing set, now eroding in my backyard?

I rather like my own personal jungle!

Still, I suppose someone has to trim the branches
that hang over the power lines.

The poison ivy sneaking its way toward the roof
needs an occasional reminder
of the terms of our uneasy truce.

Perhaps I need you after all.

"People living in glass houses
shouldn't throw stones"

Fine.
I wouldn't want to live in your glass house anyway
Go ahead, throw your stones, shatter these windows.

I want to dance among the ruins
and hear your laughs ringing through the emptiness.

I want to watch as the shards scatter into the atmosphere
and rain down on us
while the blood red sun fades.

Break down the glass walls,
Burn the bridges--

Watch me fall.

Watch your step, sweetheart,
lest the whole tangled deck come crashing down.
These are not ordinary cards,
these are lead,
these are steel,
these are gold-plated darkness
and they will crush your fragile soul.
Fail, even for one second, to guard those hearts
and they will **** without hesitation.
There is no floor plan, no secret salvation.
This is a shoddy house,
built on a foundation of failures,
held together by good intentions,
fenced in by hope.

Under the ancient sofa
among the kingdom of skittish dust bunnies,
I searched that strange underworld
of my living room.

I looked behind the refrigerator,
found old bits of a doughnut
and some new species of insect
and the toenail clippers.

Next to the oldest pile of boxes
in the dampest section of the basement,
found three oddly colored socks
and an ant's nest.

I searched the whole house--
I found no words.

Nothing for the sight of you,
walking away
as the clouds melted
and poured from the sky.

Did you get those scars on your knees from praying?
Or ******* your fathers **** inside the barn?
or did you pray while doing it
that he would choke on his own satisfied face?
did you sit inside his church listening to him preach
hypocrisy to family and friends
while you swallowed back that bitter taste he left in your mouth
the one that tasted like an anger so pure it made your eyes water?
did you wait patiently for him to finish his speeches about
salvation, jesus, god and being sinless
whilst you prayed in that godless church, he would miss a step
fall and break his neck?
Was that thought the only thing that gave light to your eyes?
did you think these things while you brushed the dirt and gravel off your knees
wash the blood in the toilet
Put on your Sunday dress and look at yourself in the mirror
with empty eyes
that knew nothing but hate
and a shame so heavy it made you hate the act of breathing?
because every time you did it reminded you of the weight on your chest that no amount
of air
could
get
rid
of
(like the time he sat on you when you were sleeping)

Do you think that gods disciples and prostitutes have the same knees?
Do you think anyone can tell the difference?

Does the cross around your neck ever threaten
to get so tight it chokes you?
so hot, it burns your skin?

Too much praying gets you to the same place
when you're left with nowhere to dish out your pain
and too many unanswered questions, on your knees
on your ******* knees
about fathers and gravel, dirt **** and spit
*We all get ****** in the end

well, now i've done it.
Got just what i asked for
fought for
and the sun keeps rising
and all horizons seem to picket-fence
the ruins of my waking life
when your head is beaten in and down
and your words are your banner
ripping from your throat
when you win the war
and all seems calm
larks and flower-like
you cannot fathom
the devastating cost

of rebuilding the world.