Why is it always about Jesus' Suffering and God's Sacrifice?
Where is Mary?
Where is the woman whose reward for goodness and virtue was to have her baby boy tortured and killed as a warning?
Do you think Mary the ******, Mary the Mother, Mary the human ever regretted being good enough to earn attention of her God?
Do you think she ever quietly, privately, resented her faith?
Cursed her fate to be raised on a pedestal, carved into history as beautiful, weeping, covered in gold, cradling the body of her child?
How would she feel today, to step into a church and see above the pulpit, larger than life, the glossy painted likeness of her boy, thin and bleeding, looking to the heavens to a Father who would not spare him?
Was it terrible for Mary? Did she hate her God, in the end? Or did she stand tall to the last breath, a reluctant but obedient witness, faithful despite everything?
Was as she ever torn between her faith and her heart? Her love and her fear? The choice between loss or betrayal?
It would be terrible if she was in torment, but would be terrible if she wasn't.

Your heartbreak is as cozy
As the fishbowl I still get dizzy in
After you took me off the back burner
And placed me on the counter to cool
I have to remind myself that
It is not an earthquake when you
Slam the kitchen cabinets
Even though
My world shakes

The thing about fish is
If you don’t put a lid on their bowls
They tend to jump out
Not that it is an attempt at suicide
Just that some of us were born
Without the capacity to understand
Our own limitations
Don’t tell me I can’t breathe on dry land
*******
I am a man
Which means I am too dumb to understand that
Unless I try

How am I supposed to know
That I can’t protect you from everything
Unless I try

How am I supposed to know
That I can’t love you forever
Unless I try

How am I
supposed to know
That duct tape
can’t hold everything together
Unless I try

How was I supposed to know
That we would eventually be
Nothing but gasps of air
On a damp cutting board
When the lashings of love
Have denatured the thickest parts of our skin

Maybe I don’t know how to fix everything
Or love you like a normal person
Maybe saying every thought I have out loud
Makes you uncomfortable
It makes me uncomfortable
My face isn’t always this red
My skin isn’t always this hot
I am not always this dumb

But I am a man *******
And maybe I just
Haven’t learned that yet

I first found Sundance bleeding in the desert like a dog.

Dirt stuck to him in broken window panes,
he bent his neck toward me in parts.

Spoke through eyes red like Arizona rock.

******* was so *****,
looked like the desert spat him up.

Turns out it was the next town over.



They’d never done a proper hanging, before.


What happens when you’ve never done a
proper hanging before is loose hands.

Loose hands have a tendency
toward knives.

Sheriff sort of looked like a cross,
on his back,
that big knife stickin’ straight up like
a piece of glass.

Almost looked like Christ,
all curled up,
shining bright,
golden in all that dust.

Sundance drowned the devil in the Rio Grande.

Sundance had hands that were ****** quick.

I once saw him on a slow day.
Even then, they didn’t get to see the lightning,
people on the wrong end.

All they got was that black-hole barrel.
Must have looked like a third eye, on the other side. 

Must have looked like a sunset.  
Sundance’s tequila-blues,
a little shimmer, orange, red.  


Six sunsets in three seconds
he was that quick.


In Bolivia we met two hundred Federalies 
and I first saw him shake. 



He said everything’s upside-down on the other
side of the equator and sunsets happen
the wrong ****** direction here.

Said we got lazy and let the Texas
spin us over the wrong way.

I bet he was quick enough to see the lightning
before the black.

Sundance told me when the world ends,
it’ll start in Texas.

Said there’s a few canyons there that’ll swallow
the whole ****** planet if we’re not too careful.

Said we’ll be wakin’ up next to ****** snakes,
before anyone notices.

The human thigh bone is stronger than concrete, a boy in a man's body tells me, as he ***** down a joint trying to **** himself quietly. I find it funny that we weren't built to break, our bodies are so strong it takes trucks to overturn us. the funny thing is, we were designed to survive but they forgot to make our souls strong. sometimes people talk to me about the invincibility of the human spirit, and I think that sounds really pretty but doesn't solve problems like how teenagers are taking their own lives off of shelves as if they were thieves in a seven-eleven. they say the human spirit can endure anything thrown at it, but then how come so many of us hate ourselves so hard we can't see straight?
the human thigh bone is stronger than the buildings we keep killing ourselves in, And I have realised there is a big difference between being alive and living.

I. I say your flesh won't
Be enough for me. You say
I can have your bones.

II. Don't let yourself think
For one second I don't know
Your whole, cursed structure.

III. The angle of your
Pinky finger is, frankly,
Not too promising.

IV. You fall and fall and
Fall and fall and fall and fall
And fall and then snap.

V. We say we're fragile.
The flesh, maybe. But the bone
Is god's own thumbtack.

VI. I wanna kiss your
Skull. Leap past all the dying
Stuff and touch the sea.

VII. Cartilage is a
Nasty, cowardly *****. But
Somehow I need it.

IIX. Break a bone for me.

Sitting on the bathroom floor with a gun in your hand
Knees pulled up to your chest
Your head rests on your knees
Your shoulders shaking cause you're laughing and crying
Gun to the side of your head
"Are you gonna do it?"
Find the sweet release when the bullet leaves the barrel of the gun and enters your brain

Click

The gun's empty
I am not dying
The gun's unloaded
I do this every time
Never strong enough to take the bullet
And never strong enough to let anyone see me like this
Always weak enough to be messed up like this
*Always thinking, always wishing I put a bullet in

Flower petals fall
A sweet reminder of death
Of how a flower–
Is slowly rotting away,
The second it grows petals

if roots can wait,
beneath the earth,
for a rain they cannot live without.

and if the stars wait,
lingering in dusk,
just to see the moon once more.

then i,
full of burning ache,
can wait too.

I will wait for you.

Do not rewrite the past.
No hand can erase
what time has carved
in wounded skin.

Let your oldest notebook
inscribe the first line
of a new tale —
written in fresh tears
and the sweat
of becoming
a future still unfolding.