Dear man in the moon,

I am beyond saving,
but there are others
that need you
far more than I do.

I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.

I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.

I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.

I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.

I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.

I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.

She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"

We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.

Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried

To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.

Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there.  Good dog.

When you write,
What do you offer?

Life to the lifeless
Power to the powerless
Voice to the voiceless
Love to the unloved?

Or are you
Simply
In need of all that too.

How dare
           I detail
your loneliness,
            when it is I
         that leaves you
                             alone?

Each subway platform
has two trains, see.
One east and one west,
or one south and one north.

In many cases,
you must cross a bridge or tunnel
to reach the other train.
On these bridges,
there is often a bench,
equidistant between either directions,
atop the two trains.

This is where you must sit
when you are young and in love,
and with the person
with whom you are in love and young,
for each of you
will inevitably need to go another direction,
west or east
or north or south,

but it is wonderfully easy
to just sit on the bench.

I wish my pen to be a dancer,
graceful, strong and wild.
I wish my words to fill with wonder,
curious as a child.
I wish my tongue to shed its silver,
to slow its warm descent,
and to act against the worst of enemies
whose words I can't prevent.

I met a man along the road
And crooked was his smile
Crooked were the steps he took
Along his crooked miles

His arms were long, his fingers too
Though neither pointed straight
His legs were like two twisted ropes
And cause his crooked gait

He flashed a crooked grin at me
And bared his crooked teeth
He wore a crooked coat of black
and no shirt underneath

His body was a twisted mess
Jutting all around
His crooked bones rattled and cracked
As he shuffled ‘cross the ground

“And to where do you go?” His crooked voice rasped
I pretended not to hear
“Answer me my new young friend,
There’s nothing for you to fear.”

“I do not know,” I whispered back
“I know not where I roam.
but I know life lies ahead,
and behind me lies my home.”

“And where are your friends?” he asked of me
A crooked gleam in his eye.
“They did not want to come,” I said.
“I never did learn why.”

“My boy that’s cause they do not care,
You’re not worth caring for!
Look at you; useless, dumb
Weak, ugly, and poor.”

“Well how far have you come?” he asked.
“13 years,” I said
“Only 13?!” his broken voice creaked
“Oh, you’re sure to end up dead.”

“Better men have walked here than you,
More experienced, and with more help.
They died here alone, and so too will you.
You’re an insignificant whelp.”
_____________

I tried to ignore him, really I did
I fought back against all his lies.
But one cruel blow, on one cruel night
I looked straight in the Crooked Man’s eyes.

Then before I could scream
My heart broke at the seem
And I felt an unyielding pain

My insides were hollow
Mouth too dry to swallow
I begged, “Please, make it stop!”

So he took out a brand
And placed it in my hand
“Burn it out of your skin.”

Then he watched with a smile
Relaxed for a while
As my agony tickled his ears

Though I did as he bade
He took out a blade
“Not enough, try harder my boy!”

But the blade and the brand
One in each hand
Could not purge the sorrow within

So covered in scars
Beneath all the stars
The rest of my life began

I fell to my knees as the crooked man laughed
He placed a crooked hand on my head
“Ignorant boy,” he said with some joy

“You’re mine until you’re dead.”
____________


For five long years we walked together
Every night a repeat of the first
And when others would pass, I’d smile and laugh
They never knew I was cursed

Then one fateful night the Crooked Man said
“You’ve grown so dull and so dry!”
He gave me the knife and said, “End your life.”
“I believe its past time that you die.”

I placed the knife against my neck
And felt the familiar blade
Just one more cut, like all the rest
And my tortured life would fade

I closed my eyes then took a breath
And felt myself let go
But right before I did the deed
My broken heart said…”no”

“no” I said, then “No” I growled
Then “NO!” I screamed and screamed!
I threw the knife into the dirt
And doused the brand that gleamed

I turned toward the Crooked Man
His smile had withered away
“Pick that up you worthless cur!”
He tried his best to say

I charged at him with all I had
We fell hard into the mud
“You’ll never win,” he grunted, “You’re weak!
You’ve lost far too much blood!”

“I have a home you wicked thing!
Some friends and a family too!
And I’ll never die, nor even try
If it means they’re left with you!”
_____________

I still wrestle with the crooked man
And sometimes he almost wins
But I refuse to lose to him
nor surrender to his whims

“I’ll never let you go,” I say,
“Or let you get ahead.
Because you filthy sack of sin

You’re mine until you’re dead.