There is a tree on the street corner
all twisted and stunted and ugly
sitting on an empty lot surrounded by
hot asphalt and car horns.
But every year at Christmas
it is strung up with lights,
and in February
it is given one lone, glittering heart.
I see it on my way to the cafe
after a drunken night of revelry
and I wonder
who on earth would decorate
this lonely dead tree
in this dead little town?
I stole a pen in order to write all this down
and despite all that effort I left my little poem
on a table in a cafe.
I struggle to recapture my words again
It's much harder when you're sober.
I am obsessed with that tree on the street corner
twisted and stunted and beautiful.

The world is ending today,
the sky is falling in clumps.
It was just a bunch of LEGOS after all.

Nobody sees it but me
and I am alarmed.

Why do kids think they are so **** indestructible,
When the whole wide world
Is just waiting to pounce?

The private gun salesman
divine savior of our life,
liberty, and pursuit of happiness!
Washes his own hands
of the matter,
he has no need for Mary Magdalene,
divine *******, hippie.
Arms outstretched
he sacrifices his own collection
(for a sum of course)
for the anonymous benefit
of a person who
"seems alright".
They aren't Mexican or Black after all!
Or God forbid, Indian!
What would we do
without that Just defender?
Our private gun salesman,
divine savior of America.

I remember staring at the ceiling
listening to Schindler's list in the dark.
We were two orphans
sleeping with our poor lost mother
who couldn't pull herself together
for her two orphan children.
The only lullaby she knew
was her own depression.

I remember how the music scared me
worse than nightmares
and I lay close to you imagining
the great train
carting off lost mothers
and orphan sisters.

Our poor mother turn child
sneaking into bed with her orphan daughters
to escape the wisps of nightmares.
The music,
filled with so much sorrow and pain
was too much for ones so young.

I'm so sorry sister,
We really should never have listened.

Imagine,
Just for a moment,
That Eve had a daughter
Before the desert.
And,
Remaining pure,
She was left behind,
The sole tenant of that holy garden.
Retaining her creation-day innocence,
She is imprisoned
by her eternal perfection.
Naked, pure,
she is a ghost
haunting heaven.

When I start to forgive you,
This is what I will think about.

I won't think of your laugh,
Our talks, or our jokes.
I won't think of how
you pretended to defend me,
Or how much I loved you.
I will not remember the theme parks,
The movies, or the gifts.
I won't think about our long road trips,
I won't think about all the things you taught me,
All the gentle words you hissed like a snake.
I will not think of how you used to be Father.

I will think, instead of how much you hurt me.
Of the bruises you left on me,
On us, the one's you turned against
And left behind.
I will remember how you threw me to the wolves.
I will think about your hands on me,
In the pretense of play,
And of how sick they made me.
I will think of all that you ruined,
Of how happy I was when you died,
When it was finally over.

You may haunt me all my life,
But I never want to forget how much
I hate you.
I never want to give your spirit
A single moment's peace.
You've been my nightmare long enough,
It's time that I was yours.