in the book of mild love, a capital letter cares for a typo.  it is not a caring one might do for a newborn, the sick, or for a felon who as a newborn was often sick.  this is also in the book of mild love, which tells us how to care.  

my father was arrested on the tarmac but not before he’d placed the miniature of our city beneath a grounded plane.  when interrogated as to what he’d accomplished, he said he’d successfully placed a miniature of our city beneath a grounded plane.

my father calls his legs hangers-on.  it is not a joke to him like the joke of his botched execution.  my father gave me the book of mild love because he thought it was the best joke-book I could get my hands on.  in the book of mild love, I am given an example of a suicide note and asked to scan it for typos.

my mother’s password is entrepreneur.  it is spelled backward and written across the front of her lazy eye’s lid.  in the widely read book of furious welfare, it is recommended that the initiator of any staring contest be you.  she looks at me as if I’ve thrown a tiny pink bird from a moving car’s window because I have.  I was chewing the bird to keep from laughing at my brother, his nose in the book of I am on drugs.

my father won’t teach from the book of ***.  not once does it mention the bomb.

I saw a man selling sunlight in jars
I bought one
for you

Clouded skies were once green with guilt as they looked on at a love never intended to happen (let alone last). I scrawl secrets onto the backs of my hands and wave, barefaced, to strangers, who have only seen me through the eye-holes of cardboard masks...
I never wanted to be seen.
Yet, your eyes saw the unforeseable, and my heart and soul were spread out over sheer table tops. You examined them with tender, knowledgeable pupils, glazed with beckoning fright. You did not find your happy ending in my book of sad truths. I ceased to be of any value to you, and, since I was not the rare, antique you thought you saw wallowing in a windowshop corner, eventually, you couldn't see me...

The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that I fall in love daily
Held under so many captivating spells
moulded and crafted by all walks of life
I find myself longing for all of you
the broken, the fallen, the bruised
the saints, the sinners
the righteous, the dispossessed
the holy, the unholy
all meet here
to speak of life
as they feel it
as only we know it.
Onwards, upwards
Downward spirals
kindness, cruelty
crashing through boundaries
bounding across oceans
carried on wistful sighs and broken dreams
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that it breaks my heart
Then brings me back to love again
All within an hour.

when he stopped eating
the food
provided
the food
became angry
and impossible
to eat.

the food
provided elsewhere
became so calm
some used it
as a sleep
aid
secondary
to starvation.

I try not to think for my children, it’s hard, they are
delicious
children.

employed
was the angry
punk
to recite
the warning
at the end
of a drug
commercial.

the thinking behind this was sound.
the side effect of this thinking

gave the punk
a tenderness
to his voice
none expected
his mothers

to notice.

it wasn’t exactly the voice of god
but from a god-like stupor
came god

to his son
who was his
and the punk

sang

she carries herself as if
she is made of coal
but when she
picks up her pen, she
vomits diamonds, but
they don't shine bright enough for her to see.

i am not  
your girl      

i am just
the instrument
of your
insatiable lust,
your reliable
second choice

i am the
missed call      
on your phone,
the unopened
love letters
stashed under
your mattress

i am the
neglected cup
of coffee,
the Advil                        
after a hangover

i am
the person
in between
your shivering
legs and
the one
whose thighs
are covered
with bruises
and your
lipstick stains

the only person
who tolerates
your alcoholism
and the
only one
you kiss        
when you
taste like
cheap bar
whiskey

i am
the hand
rubbing
shoulders
while you
puke your
entire night
out and spill
incoherent
words

i am all
of those
things but
i am not
your girl

i am
just your
drunken night,
the blurs
of your
hangover

i am the
memories
you long
so much
to delete

because i
am also
the regret
seeping through
your skull
preventing you
from sleeping
at night

i am not
your girl

but i crave
to be yours