The white dawn
flares red at it's roots.
And each eye towards the sun
sets fire to the heart.

Digesting sparks.
Mud with broken glass.
Toys stolen from children.
My lover's heart
chewed into bits.
Blood and bile
on my lips.

My love is not docile.
My fury is pure.
In the wake of our passion
we brace to endure.

Luey, where are you going?
I see you've packed your things:
cigarettes, cologne, and cough drops.
A razor and romantic songs.

Coming down the stairs,
clean-shaven mug, and gel in hair.
You ask dad to take you
to the airport where you meet Drew,
organize, and head out towards the sky.

To see your girl
and she, her guy.
And in the kitchen Drew eats pie,
so much that he must
conjure up a lie.

Luey, I think about you
twice a week
and write this poem
so you may see
the time we spend
means more to me
than juicy burgers
with melted cheese.

I cannot end without saying
that lately you have been displaying
subtle love that's just as deep
as any other.

I love you,
my brother.

Crying suicidal tears
upon an ivory sink.
Smashing the mirror with my fist,
shattering my image.
The black blood that
boils within my heart.
This is to be forsaken by my Lord.

Helpless, naked in the storm
feeding on maggots and mud.
******* with the horses in their stalls.
This is to be forsaken by my Lord.

To sleep with the enemy every night.
To facilitate his talons entry to my soul.
To envy the deceased.
This is to be forsaken by my Lord.

I am the mother.
I am the root of sin.
Endless cycle of decay.
Putrid anti-beauty horror.

Found, never forgotten.
Shame into contrition.
Fear into trust.
Kept, acknowledged and forgiven.

This is to be known by my Lord.

Let me map the constellations
in your soul.
And inhale the dark abyss
that deftly wounds.

To leave my princess white as snow.
Mighty wings to soar,
above and beyond
heaven's door.

Her body as unforgiving fire
pulls my heart upon her altar.
Makes me promise I can suffer
the ecstasy of wounded lovers.

In her womb I sympathize
with angels that have learned to fly.
But I have cut my wings away
to lost within her beauty stay.

A white ceramic bowl
holds grapes and apples.
A dusty bag of potatoes
resting in the corner.

Raspberries on the bathroom floor
crushed by tiny feet.
Two dark brown eye lashes
on the toilet seat.

White powder on my handgun.
Smoke and ashes under the sheets.
Her corpse lay in the kitchen.
Her dry, open eyes
like small white peaches.

If blood were white
I wouldn't worry.
If fruits were murdered,
or never grown.

If my mouth had never tasted
the earth's bounty.
Then I would be moral.
Then I would be merry.

The center
hardens with time,
until broken,
forced apart
or forged
into something new.

You can pierce
the crying child
with your sharp
fingernails.
Scratch the face away
until there’s
innocent blood
underneath your
fingernails.

Without a face
there is no innocence,
without remorse
we burn the wings.

Naked torso
sprouts
dead vegetables,
buried remains
wilt and decay.

She follows
the river
to the bleeding mouth,
mumbles a prayer
under the bridge.

It’s a cheap afternoon
with lazy stray cats,
a burning breeze
and incoherent
Mexican music.

I drink the mosquitoes
and burn my fingers
on the cigar nub.
I close my eyes
to meditate.

There is no sky
to consider the rain
and my suicide
with extra
blood spatter,
minus the note.

I open my eyes
and relight my cigar,
burn my fingers again
and exhale.