My heart is a bassoon
once I've tackled it
to the ground, oboe
in my good hand
As a battering ram
A morning star
A mace
A flail

Nary more a tune

My heart is a bassoon!
got it now? It waits
to fill up every room

"Water always finds
It's own level" or so they
say and if my heart were
full of water I wouldn't
have a clue what they
mean by that anyway

My heart is a *******
bassoon and if I were to
put it in the bath it would
ruin it

I thought nothing of living
in a tree house at the age
of fourteen which baffles me
(why did this come so naturally
not to wonder at my lack
of sturdy walls and a family?)
and anyway my favorite saint
hung out in the upper limbs
of trees, throwing rocks
at her suitors, mostly
old men, stooped and
earth bound
Her father had sent them
one after the other until
she finally shattered and
winter was coming anyway
time for her to scatter

As did I.
The breeze was killing
me.

No one sees fourteen
year olds who live in trees
I assure you, NO one.

We are legion, our invisible
army of doom, no wonder
so much comes naturally
to me, having been taught
to not see the worst of
atrocities, I am perfectly
able to not see too

I'm not that different
from you

If you've read your Charlie
Dickens you would see me
through the gloom, a bit
of an anachronism but
it will just have to do

I spent half my life
as a homeless agoraphobe
think about that
I have been predisposed
to fling myself at anyone
or anything that has even
a hint of promise of a home
Home. Searching far and wide
What on earth is it anyway?
as a child I would spend
half the day starving
and the other half gagging
down what I was told
was a meal
I didn't know broccoli is
green until I had some in
prison. Home.
Transitory.
Devilish.
The Easter bunny visits
homes but in our case
sorry kids, he broke his
leg this year and that's
when I found out every
adult was a liar. Including
the Easter bunny, in his
disheveled fur stinking
of gin with two perfectly
good legs.
And those were the good
years

You nearly dropped me
to my knees, somewhere
between those two valves
holding all of my blood
between you and your
trumpet call of ******
and rusty notes, I did
I did as I pleased

My parenthetical ******
you and your aborted mission
as if my heart and soul were
so much real estate,
a mere commission of
your concubine mentality
and a big ol' wrench in
your alternate reality
you did, you did
as you pleased

I defended your every atrocious
deed, you there, Herr Panzerblitz
standing with your chest out and
your thumb in the air testing
the breeze

I deferred to your omnipotence
like a good villager and even
in the shadow of each turned page
I deferred to your made up history
quelling my each and every fit
of rage

Deferring to all that was yours
was as easy as deferring my life
as a whole held in the fat of
your fist as you slowly lost
control

I am chopped in half by
the parentheses of your grip
half a woman who has found
her running legs and sliding
far and away from your
parenthetical head trip

Long trip, aint it?
from your finger
to my lips, glide
down my chin and
between my
****
(my knees are screaming
for you but darling, lets
not rush so
ah, for chrissakes,
he forgot my
hips
YOU are the king
of tomorrow I am
nothing but leftover
To Current Occupant
unread
(I stand on my porch
searching the horizon
for your headlights
the sound of a
Volkswagen
anything
I am the queen
of yesterday, at least
read my obit- I was
a well known poet)
almost

I live in a palace
of broken glass
ten times, one
hundred times
I land
I land on
my broken ***
O Daddy
o daddy
why did you
******* me
like this
ten times
one thousand
times, a broken
dish, reflected
you me YOU ME
ah f
and so
each time you
did this to me
I became the child
you abandoned
again and
again
I've grown to
despise holidays
because the include
you and all of your
solid assurance that
I'll keep your secret
Daddy I cannot bear
to be anywhere
near you
you wreck me
you break me
into these fing
prisms
and so the only way
to lose you is to lose
all of the pieces of
me
F* YOU
DAD!

(Merry Christmas
so...)

I will get straight
to the point, shoving
past year after year
after year, count them
dear, sick puppy
torn from the pack
blood smeared
you culled me from
the herd and made me
your stuffed meal
your worse than zeal
your mascot

When I was twelve years old
you bent me into a comma

When I was twelve and
one quarter you bent me
into a fist, a fetal position
you could not resist

The love of a child
when I was twelve
and a half I fought
back but lucky you
no mother love was
listening


The anatomy of a child

You *******

Who's the hunter now?

Not you, nearly seventy
years old, ***** hippie
with one dry pointed
finger (you know
which one)

To be

To be continued
when I'm done