A weathered door of a face.
Her house, captured in a bubble,
on Anterograde Lane.
In the dark; in the corner,
her leg, scarred in cursive, propped,
like the whole of her frailty; on a
budget wheelchair, second hand.

A boy, brand new,
who will soon be old enough
to forget what happened.
What mother? On the road,
smeared with hot, gushing
jet-black highway blood;
encompassing the coagulated
being of what was, and, only
in hushed talks, a mother.
What daughter?

How old are you, this time?
These words slip out of a smile.
And she wishes she could hold him
-- but her frayed fingers fight back,
with every twitch trying to touch.
Delayed comfort becoming devastation
-- 4 years-old. She can hardly believe it.

Pain eats her grocery bag arms,
bulbous in her bones like
confused locusts, frenzied.  
The boy's eyes are a deep brown
nutrient-rich soil, perfectly fertile;
needing to be cared for and grown.

Forever, she could, protect him from
The Lurking that killed his mother.
At the very least, for however many
remaining years. Three. Five. Eight.
Becoming a lantern before his sight;
guiding him from dangerous design
drifting between trees, in the dark.

Now,
Don't you tell me to chill.
Like the Beastie Boys I've
got a license to ill.
Over-confident for
insecurity's sake.
An ego so big
sudden drops could
cause a quake.

Now,
Shake-Sha-Shake
                    it up.
A poem so apathetic
it might give a ****.
Wanting to rap; also
wanting to write --
don't mistake my words
for something tight.

I backpedal before flanks of flames,
auburn and angry, devouring the
fractured field; deconstructing
                     the turn of the century.

The fire jumps up and down,
like a developing polaroid,
asking to be acknowledged
-- to which I can relate, but
I'd like to believe I cause
                  less destruction.

Closing my eyes, I become
submerged in memory of the
hideous boulevard she drove
down, to the tune of disposable
pop singers; crouching next to
the radio, praying with the servants
of postured finer joys like pirate
rubies and sweet kale salads.

When looking up, through the
windshield; through the life;
a tic scampers from eyelid to
cheek, as the car buckles before
a triumph of a deer; the size of
a Godly Eland, shoveling it's
human feet into the downtown
dirt: an asphalt so slick, we
rose from our seats, as the
God split our vehicle in half,
throwing us into opposite
guardrails; dodging cars,
while it watched us.

Shudders of savored gladness
drip down my hairline wound,
painting my face before I die
and return to the towering blaze.

My mother enjoyed shrieking
by the luminous Atlantic.
A place where she was sure
the salmon were scant, like
the bleach dumps, threatened
by a figure who loved binding
her to thoughts of terror.

Our hands were rough, at the
time -- so much so that we
would grasp at glass in the
white sand, pressing the edges
against calluses, without feeling,
before hurling the fragments
into the endlessness.

The sun would sit on the pink
and orange carpet of the sky.
And we would join it, with our
striped bottoms in the coarseness.

Praying for the glass to return;
asking for each piece to be sharpened,
so that we may be able to feel.

I feel like dying
a death they'll count in likes.
Always second. Next best
  option -- may he rest in peace.

So many people other than me.
Having to apologize for bleeding
  on the knife in my back.
You cheated on me -- please still love me.
There are so many other men -- please
  let  me  be  your  eternal.

I'm a side *****, worth my weight
  in wallet and ****. My head of
hair is curly. Tangles of fun;
  all connected to ordinary brain.

Tell me your proud, father.
Tell me I'm worth something, mom.
Am I contributing to the economy, America?
May I crumble so that my pieces fill
the cracks that I could never fill.

So many thin, druggy boys and
a crazy, ******-honey are trying
to stomp me like the ****** dream
that I am. Pure Side *****. Pure
Side *****. Graphic designers
and killers, oh my.

But wait!
  Me?
It couldn't be me
  that you're speaking to.
Die for the American Dream?
  You want me to write for
no one to read? You want me
  to **** until I can feel?
You want me to fall apart
  and be taken care of by someone
who isn't even born yet?
  You want my money.
  You want my ***.
  You want my violence.
  You want my soul.
  You want me on one side.
  You want me to **** my brother.
  You want me to be red or blue.
  You want me to pick a news channel.
  You want me to uncover my camera.
  You want to regulate me.
  I am your side *****. I am your
  side *****. You can destroy me
  and I will apologize for the
  mess my body made.

Different colored fruit
with various tastes
One hits the ground
and the others
go to waste

Different colored fruit
some bruised
some small
If one has a worm
you have to
destroy them all

Different colored fruit
believing in higher things
Worshiping their trees
Debating over the rings
they find when they
tear their Gods apart
Different colored fruit
some sweet
some ****

Different colored fruit
with evolving views
Growing with the season
some becoming softer
some turning darker hues

Different colored fruit
learning how to die
Some at peace
with falling
Some hoping
to float
into the sky

It's emergence so brief and shattering,
you'd have to question it's existence.
****** from the swamp by the sky,
it is devoid of morality; it is the terror
that does not forgive what it hasn't
given permission to.

Abrupt hum of an Indian motorcycle,
streaking across the starving freeway,
leaving ribbons of red, in the long,
uncomfortably volcanic-black night.

The body on the machine is wrapped
in cheap, crimson leather, and topped
by a navy helmet, stamped by a
visor reflecting rushed stars.

Migraine-inducing headlights hit
it's prop-store-green body, as it
drips and steps towards a vintage
orange van. Through the videotape
windshield, it can see two still figures;
two figures with aviators and bandannas.

Road signs swing by; the air zipping
in and out of the helmet. The body,
effortlessly, weaves through and
past the few vehicles lost in the dark.

Decelerating, the Indian penetrates
an exit stained: 567-TX-155.

Inside the carpet lined cave,
the figures stare at the monster,
indifferent to it's existence -- well,
not entirely one reminds the other.
It's arms dance in front of it's eyes,
blinded by the freshly clicked
high-beams; unaware that they
are, slowly, stepping closer.

Approaching a skeletal forearm,
emulating a tree, the Indian gradually
becomes silent. The body walks it
behind the rooted elbow, laying it
on a web of wooded earth; pulling
up a sleeve, removing and resting
a watch on the hot, metallic carcass.

It removes it's scattering fingers,
green and twitching, from it's
shrub framed eyes. Looking
forward, two bottles of blackness
grow near. It is a miracle only
surpassed by the instability of
life, that I look upon you, one
bellows. Consider this not
personal, but a preemptive
admonishment. Simply: I
cannot allow you to live,
for I have heard what I
cannot understand. Please
know that I admire,
thus I destroy.

The leather-clad foot-claps
eat and spit the sleeping gravel.
Pace becomes quicker; frenzied,
even. Like a comet, exact in its
imprecision, the navy helmet
falls to the ground, capturing
a night-sky goodbye; casting
the moon, briefly, into her eye.
So brief you'd have to
question its existence.

It's body, pulpy and beet red,
lodges itself between their
pale, freckled fingers. They
consume, pause, then continue
to gnash on the foreign meat.

Yellow, like an ancient bone,
the moon curves and bends
with ever chomp. It can feel
it all. The insides, pulled and
wrapped around wrists; soon
yanking; soon gritty removal.
The light begins to blend
with the surrounding dark.
Last breath, ruined by the
brief choking it's flesh caused.
So brief you'd have to
question it's existence.  

Sweat rips down from her
hair, onto her eyelids. A
dead sprint is broken into,
before she throws herself
into woods, avoiding the
approaching beams of a
vehicle. Forty-three
seconds imitate the
vehicle and go by. She
lifts her eyes to the brim
of a bush; pupils sliding
side-to-side.

Van tires make the transition
from gravel to asphalt, as the
two figures are now, indifferently,
drenched in a red-bronze, becoming
crust around their lips. The driver
says, My father told me about him --
that. He said, if given life, it would
learn to take it. You cannot change
the nature of a monster. If we
remove it, we remove death.
We control the consent.

Her heels transform her sprint
into a statue's posture. The rocks
hurt her knees, as her hands soon
follow, crashing to the ground.
Scattering fingers reach towards
her, soon met by her petite grasp.
The same fingers grow still.

She reaches towards her side,
cradling the nickle handle of
The Last Killer
looking behind her, anger and
a plan, running down her face.