My father died
from a gun shot wound
to the head

self-inflicted

Don't get all weird about it.

Fathers die
and their passing
though certain
is rarely easy.

So what can I say of this man
so many years
after his emphatic end?

I can say what Whitman said
of Lincoln:
"O Captain, my Captain.
Rise up and hear the bells."

But he will not.

He was ever-present
wise and alert
a boxer in life
a fighter in every way.

And I grew up with the gloves on
quick
elusive
and thanks to him
successful in every ring.  

He died
******* on a lit tobacco stick

Emphysema was gonna
take him down
so he pulled his own trigger
saved his family that way
though that's a longer tale

Therefore
and whereas
this is a belated requiem
for a man I loved.
My Captain.
Dear and departed
these many years
may he rest in peace
as he never rested
in life.

He picks them up at random
Takes them out
Becomes engrossed in one
Then the next

Finished with them
He dumps them back
Where he found them
A little worse for wear

If you're so broken, why don't you find the bottle opener, cupcake?
Why don't you lick the frosting off the bottom of the bowl, stoner?
When you say you're just pitiful, I see rain puddles drooling from the pockmarks of your cheeks.
I wish you'd realize that the sun isn't just shining out of my broken skin knuckles.

People like to lord their humanity
over those they find
less human,
to those people
that a certain definition of human doesn't fit.
"how can you-
hope to be me."
as if they were the pure form of human...
What they forget
is we are all merely monsters,
gallivanting as civilized
and sometimes

we forget which fork is for the meat
and eating our pasta with the salad fork;

we betray our monster.

But also people forget
that angels are just another form of monster
who forgot to be human.
And if we ever could forget our skins
we could just lean down
and help a fellow monster
find his wings
before we meld back into the sky.

A trail of bread crumbs to the witches house,
through the forest that haunted that strange little town.
she was never quite loved-
that lone confectioner.
pushed to the outskirts
by those that live for white picket fences
and the grass growing green and even.
When the authorities came by,
they found two kids, fat and happy,
but not by the hand of the woman.
There was no cage in the house made of sugar;
for what sweetened cage could hold a child?
No, the once fragile and beautiful house
that glittered like spun glass,
sat eaten and worn at the loss of her owner
for little old ladies do not devour children,
but children will **** for candy.