in the brokenness of his words.
He knew the words
before his brain began to die.
He spoke the words
before his brain began to die.

I hear my father's heart
in the skips and starts,
the stuttering frustrations
of his voice.
The voice that scolded and teased,
that soothed and laughed,
the voice that prayed gentle prayers
and loving blessings.

I hear my father's heart even
when the words don't come.
He tries to tell me that he's proud of me,
that he's proud of my husband, that I've been
a good daughter,
a good wife,
a good mother.
I know this is what he's saying.

I know my father's heart.

You speak of death
and change
and hope
and anxiety.
You beg for recognition
in rambling,
poorly allusionistic spoken words.
You waste these early morning hours
in a drunken smoky stupor
pretending to be adults.

Which of you goes home to sleep half
a day on your mom and dad's dime?
Which of you works
to buy the liquor and the smokes?

Leave this concrete stage by the
crashing waves.
Go home. Sleep it off. Get a job. Volunteer.
Grow up.

Idealism does not feed you.
It cannot shelter you.

Words don't change anything.
What you do
What you do
changes you.

Maybe men are only good in 15 minute segments.
Good ***,
compassion,
eye contact,
laughter,
conversation.
Maybe that's all we get.
15 minutes of good,
a lifetime of good enough to get us through.

This room is full of blind eyes
As I sit
And listen to these sore excuses for lies.
I cry a couple tears, and cut myself a little deeper every time..
And
When you all see the cuts, you look at me like.. I've, committed some type of crime?
But it doesn't seem to matter to anybody.
Caring seems to be everyone's antibody.
But no matter how blind
Everyone else is always on my mind.
My parents, tell me to **** it up.
The people I trust, leave me.
And the only thing this ****** up world does for me is endlessly deceive me...

A famous artist took his painting,
which commenced life as beach driftwood,
whipped it with a chain.
Made it all
chipped and nicked,
and called it, antiqued.
He liked the way it looked,
and had it put in a museum.

God looked down and thought,
"****, I do good work,
Just look at the human race!"

In the dark
A spark
It’s you.
After the night’s thorn
A sweet morn
It’s you.
Amidst all rust
A little moondust
It’s you.
Me a haggard
Turned a songbird
It’s you.
No fence no defense
It’s you.

Deep in the forest
Fed by the soil
Nourished by the sun and rain
It etched itself onto the sky.
As it receded from the ground
Its wings mourning the upward drift
Retained the earthbound bond
Passed the sky’s nectar into the soil,
Showering gratitude by casting its shadow
For all down below to soothe their weary frames,
Sheltering the potent ones from ravages up
So they like it one day grow into a behemoth.
Once clothed mankind’s nudeness
Now remorselessly denuded by the axe of progress
Twisted gnarled deformed at man’s pleasure,
Wizened mummy, in our room a showpiece furniture!

The white canvas
Is mute
Till I draw
Escape route!