Would you look for
the atlantic coast
Where your dad
dropped you off
and became a ghost
Could you come and find
that tree in red
The one they found him under
with the hole in his head
Gangling ghosts cause trouble inside
this meaty microwave--
I am on these streets and don't know
how I got here.
I'm carrying 2% milk, in my left hand,
and a carton of extra-large eggs in my right--
I drop the jug and it bursts. I joke about how
I still have 2%, but no one laughs because
no one has ever really been around to hear me.
So, I'm scrambling eggs and wishing I had that
milk because who doesn't like voluminous eggs.
I stop whisking and ask who is there.
Why am I afraid of you, Why am I afraid of you
the raw scrambled eggs on the floor, touched by
And it's you.
You are the Lord, a naked lover, that absence
caused by my auto-pilot parents
Upon a milky hill
beneath the mounds of snow
Frozen with the horn I took
but was too afraid to blow
Beyond the sound of muffling
around the river’s bend
Walked a true love of mine
to whom I was a friend
Come cast your voice yonder
Your shrill towards the sky
I hope for your hand in mine
I am afraid to die
These hearts have become racist
What used to be kind
And all hope to be seen
On the stampeding blind
These teeth have become stained
What used to be white
Has been darkened by the
those consumed by the night
These hands have become destroyers
Fingers that once saved
Equal and human;
Clean or depraved
These hands have become destroyers
I feel you chewing the limb that
used to be there
Your skin is under my nails
You're burning my fingertips
And pulling my teeth
You strangle me deep
among the sea of leaves
in my eyes, Listening to
my every word. You tell
me I'm sacrificing for the
greater good. But I feel
submissive. I feel hateful.
You say Eve is the reason
for the downfall of mankind.
She is nothing but of rib and
even bone cracks. Saying this
as you dislodge my jawbone.
I try to argue with you, but
my language is gone.
You say that a dog is harmless
if surrounded by fence. That the
owner of the dog should pay for
the fence. That the ***** could ****
or produce pups that would ****.
I am still without words and losing
copious amounts of blood.
I am poor and no-one will acknowledge
my death. I am someone people will
forget died and will have to be reminded
years from now, during a cook-out or
amateur bowling tournament. My legacy
is that of failure and being obliterated,
These people look to money,
to colors on fabric idols,
to pages in a book written by
share-croppers afraid of flooding.
Remove me, so, to remember me
for what potential may have existed.
Kindly ignore that I never resisted,
and that I, the apex of forevers, was
always ungrateful. That I conformed
and became deeply hateful.
It becomes silent
to where I can only hear
the ringing in my ears.
I am comfortable
to the point where
I feel no longer alive.
There's a burden on
my neck that causes
me to slouch.
And I eat and sleep
throughout the years.
And I add meaning
to the days but they
I try with all my
might to give life a good
fight, but all I do is
panic on my couch.
White Interceptors illuminate, cry, and leave ribbons of red and blue,
accelerating north on Featherbed. Streetlamps hang like midnight ornaments.
It starts to rain, turning the tar streets into slick mirrors.
I can see my lights lead me, sweeping the asphalt.
Kent is still too dangerous to gentrify. The trashcans are spilling
cereal boxes and empty two liters. I imagine a two-thousand year-old
mountain of trash, corroding and forming this neighborhood.
Barefoot children walk around aluminum cakes, reaching for the rain.
Skinny cats trot across the street, green and yellow eyes,
leaking through the dark. I name them after sicknesses.
The humming of my Camry grows louder as I squeeze by
dripping, patting hands. I now recognize the moon.
Buildings swoosh by faster and faster. Minutes go by and I
find myself on the outskirts; the trees sway, dodging rain.
My phone rings like a frenzied roach. Picking it up,
'Sure. Yeah, I'll be right there.
'I'm going nowhere.'
The phone bounces on the grey seat. A screeching.
Coming to a stop; my chest almost touching the center
of the steering wheel. All becomes still.
A buck with velvet antlers stands in the rain.
It runs into the dancing forest. Much like me.
The news needs my fear.
I struggle to survive.
Is it terrible that if I
can't tell stories,
I think I can't be happy.
3AM is the prime-time slot
for the show, in my head,
entitled, 'Thoughts About Dying'
Starring, Attaching Sentiment
To Anything is Absurdity.
I wish I didn't have
All my old friends are old friends.
I miss my brothers.
I miss my grandma.
I miss having the wrong
answers about death.