America'd get its independence
two days after I lost mine
to a high school halter top
twisting my heart like funnel cake.
Although love was still
much a concept four years ago,
I new what "a break" was.
It was the last fifteen minutes
of geometry, ten seconds
beside the Homecoming goal line,
it was me on a rotting bench
watching myself in shallow water
two slow moments before diving in.
Blue Skidoo into a boulder
because I don't know what I'm doing.

Grandpa’s heart stopped before
a doctor demanded
Atropine of a nurse.

My dad knelt to obstruct
my view of grandpa’s bed,
and told me he was fine.

I pushed past Dad’s blockade,
gripped the icy bed post,
and pulled on grandpa’s sheets.

Samuel Coleridge.
Lord Byron.
William Butler Yeats.
William Carlos Williams.

I'm in Pittsburgh all the ******' time. Well, I used to be.**

I used to go bridge jumping,
lace ***** bungie jumping.
I had options, now it's Market St.
over the Susquehanna or the
long bar at the pub.
****! I miss the Steel City like
missed calls, not at all then all at once.
Stuck in Pepsi-Cola Central, Pennsylvania, in an armchair down the hall from my room flooded with pictures of lovely Pittsburgh. Single-pane windows come close to glass
skyscrapers. Kind of.

Not at all.

Slumped shoulders, a spine wire hanger
holding a jacket up. Taut sleeves, out-
turned pockets, warped collar,
and a gap-toothed zipper.

Elastic wrists plunged into shallow
pants pockets, tight like shoelaces
before the midnight untying.
Rose-gold hamper slid

beneath the box spring, dragging
cereal pieces to a fine dust
then dissipating with
the morning ritual

bed spread, bed sheet tearing from
a sweaty body to the tune
of a near-siren on the desk.
Leg swing and saunter

to cold tiles like broken glass. Clockwise
turn the shower dial, act clean, turn
it back. Fingers swipe 'cross
the medicine cabinet,

leaving droplets to race to the white wood
frame. Bridge thresholds past the fan-
diced ice air hallway to the closet.
Creep the door closed behind,

pull drawers to the end of their tracks,
find pants. Unhook jacket from bed
post, throw it on one sleeve
at a time, and plunge

elastic wrists into the shallow pockets
and leave.

Do you reject Satan?
...
Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty,
creator of heaven and earth?
**** no.

If you believe in God,
how pathetic do you feel
praying to the clouds
like there's someone above
them? What do you do when
your *prayers aren't answered
and Mom dies of a botched surgery
at forty-eight?
Do you know what *prayers
really are? They're excuses.
AND THEY DO NOT WORK.
If your sister needs a new kidney
and you're a donor match, give
her your ******* kidney, you selfish
*****. Don't get on your *******
knees and ask a Lie in white robes
to do it. God only exists in this world
because we created him to feel better
about ourselves. We're all going
to lie down in a satin-lined coffin
and rot in the ground one day.
Don't think yours is going to have
a higher thread count than mine
just because you spent your whole
life swaddled in the Shroud of Turin.

God isn't going to save you.
No one is going to save you.

I propped my heels on a vinyl
trumpet case beside a Rubik's Cube
with mostly white squares. Steel hinges
and a combination latch
kept a midnight groove contained.
Last load's dryer sheets found
their way inside my backpack,
picking up character from uncapped
pens and highlighters.