Mom's in the kitchen
Weeping openly over the loss of a human life
For the first time in who knows when.

A solitary friend comes to visit;
Someone caught in the crossfire day in and day out.

We are a ****** of manipulators,
Parents and children quickly working to out think each other
In a game each one of us will lose.

There is a tension here.
I refuse to take care of you.

Your bullet eating daughter,
Your easily impressed son,
We do not flourish here any longer.

The fig tree metaphor
Seems to gain much more meaning
The older I get.
I put a cigarette behind my ear today
And when I removed it to smoke
I realized that it was wet with the oil
From my scalp; I smoked it anyway.

Does smoking my ****** fluids
Make me seem a little more
Bukowski than normal?
Bob Dylan, the unwashed phenomenon
Of his day
Held no candle  (in my opinion)
To Phil Ochs
But here we are,
Marching on
Because the Times Are Changing.

Remember me
When the draft comes
And they forget your sunken eyes and sallow skin.
Remember me and how I said
That purple and yellow
Were my favorite colors.

We see our fathers as Gods,
Our mothers as tourniquets
Knotted at the scathings
Our Gods have given us.
Are we gifted or are we at fault?

She makes me wish
That I were twenty years older
With an extra letter to my name
And the solace of owning you
Deep in my heart.