Come,Because there's breath in meCome,I will sing for you,           you don't have to answer...

Even when the fast windtoppled the old and looming tree outside,the one I used as shelter from the days of different sunlights,I noticed the strong double doors of the barn,where I kept the machinery,standing firmly closed--they were held with bolted hinges and metal strapsthat kept the splinters from happening.I was standing on the inside,staring out through the ***** windows,trying to figure out the difference between hurricane and breeze.And although the rafters above me were creaking, and I knewthey would soon collapse down and **** me, for now, they were betterthan the weather outside.And as long as the tractor has enough oil in its workings, its gas tank filledup and its tired inflated, as long as the harvester's blades are at their sharpestand the batteries are charged every weekend, I know that when I go outside,that when I do, the work's going be done...Yes, when I go outside, when I do, the work's going to be done...

you loosen the binding straps
and lay out your heart, exposed
to bleed in the bedtime air.
let each scar be a syllable.
let each wound be a word in exchange for a hurt,
a victorious phrase
swaddled by the page
while the pain becomes ink
dry, and a bit farther away
until sob becomes sigh, and then sleep.

show me your pose,your gravity-defying surgeryyour bonded smileyour Clorox hairshow me the scars that made wrinkles unnecessaryshow me the moments they paid forthere it is,your egg timer bodydecomposing with each hustlewhile your sensibilities go numb with apathy and practicethat require five happy hour margaritasto wash down the sin of each day.

You get to the pointto where you stub your toeagainst the dining room tableand it hurts like hellbut when you look downand wiggle your toenothing's bleedingor permanently brokenand you keep walking'cause you'd ratherjust get your glass of waterand go back to sleepinstead of wasting timebitching about the unbroken toe'cause sleep is more importantthan some trivial hurtthat goes away,come morning.

eleven o'clock at nightand it's time to move the car off the street'cause tomorrow's sweeping daywhen the big truck comesto vacuum along the sidewalkfollowed by a parking control chase vehiclethat gives tickets to guys like mewho forget the rulestwenty-eight dollar citations written upby uniformed women who are up at dawnslapping flimsy slips of paper on windshieldsmaking 'em stick to the dewy glasslike toilet paperlike face cream on ******* toilet paperthat either plug up the commodeor sit melting with the other face-creamed wads in the trash can next to the commodewith nothing to do except stare you in the face,to remind youthat you forgot the ******* rulesand now it's gonna cost youtwenty-eight bucks.time to move the car,time to make things rightyou *******.

By virtue of birth and circumstanceI became an untall, unhandsomeunfair-skinned, shy immigrant boyand given a chiselwith which I can eitherwhile away the rest of my yearsscratching my predetermined epitaph of quiet reservationor take that chiseland put its sharpest edge to my wit,hone my physical form with strength and sculptingand spit at heredity's woe,unrelenting, until I have carved away theweakest parts of me and cast them asidewithout blame, without doubt, without hesitanceto emerge defiant, breathing ravenouslypiercing with new truths that obliterate the once fragile heartto make it invincible with a new forging.I am the tower of my own might.I am the forgiver of my own sins.I am the pawn that has been cast on this board of kings,And I will be victorious.