Dear Ethel Cain

Maybe I will come up with a song about my dying body that everyone except my brothers will sing to the same American bomb. Maybe then my mother will maybe then my father into the image designed by the non-working eye of god. And I won’t be touched in a bathroom and my cousins will outlive heaven in a patiently violent world of surrendering angels who surrender to themselves because their mirrors saw a sheep under an icicle and joined the suicide cult of sameness that went on to become the alcoholic white space that created heaven from nothing more than a nothing that added itself to a hell built on any toddler’s belief in offing oneself to get a nap. Gaze is a sec away from Gaza.

I am
when I drink
a birthmark
removal
expert
or an angel
privately sad
who prolongs
with a rabbit
held together
by grief
a whale’s
insomnia…

Boredom is a mirror’s god.

Pianos
in the winter
are cruel.

Another new birth,

another programmed clotting --


of exploded cells.

cows and horses
the dog barking at the tv
no westerns tonight...

the DEA at my door
want to know if i can point them
in the right direction??? ...

a tip jar at the liquor store
and the mother- in -law is moving in...

a passing fire truck with someone
in a Mickey Mouse costume waving


AND YOU CALL!!!

I pick up this Bic
I used to pick up one
that made me sick

Years and years have floated by
like so many clouds on the wind

this burning thirst
year after year
has only gotten worse

Gnawing at my brain
like a ******
on a fresh piece of birch

Freedom isn't free
there's a price to pay
I'll pay it all