His stars were crossed at birth by the ones
Who conceived him.
She who used the act to hold the boy,
He who performed for his own pleasure;
Neither with a care for the son who was a consequence.
Both indifferent until they finally broke
And the son became a pawn in a hateful game between them.
Winner take all, and he was all there was

When he learned this he used it against them
So he  could get what he wanted from one or the other.
And he had never been taught to want healthy things.

They did not care, they each tried to buy him away from the other.
He raised the price each time it was paid
And they paid it yet again to punish the other with his fleeting loyalty.

He thought others would pay when he grew older and went into the world.
Because he knew nothing else; not love or kindness
or even reasonable restraint.
There was just the pretense of human feeling,
Enough to get his way.

He called me from jail today
A girl finally told him no.
She'll never do that again, nor will their unborn child.

At least this game stops here.

The shadows flick
Faster and faster of
The fan until it
Turns into a UFO and
Detaches from the
Ceiling to fly away.

I'm drunk on
Exhaustion
High on
Poetry.

The invisible pattern
On the wall begins
To dance, the curlicues
Tangoing with fleur-d'les
To the silent drumbeat
Of my heart in my ears.

I'm intoxicated from
My thoughts
Completely smashed on
Shards of mirrors and the
Dregs of any
Innocence I had left.

I'll watch the numbers
Flash backwards, just
Let time turn around
Clocks will melt
Even in air-conditioning
I've got a
Pounding headache and
Tomorrow I'll be
Hungover
On my soul.

We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.

We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.

My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:

We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.

In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.

years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
                                                         ­           often isn’t.