my four-year-old sister asks me where we live , and I tell her
that we live in a land where america is the punchline
to one of god’s jokes
that half of us are busy debating
the existence of ,
while the other half of us are holding
our bibles like they’re grenades that we can lob at
anyone who doesn’t agree with our opinions .
I tell her we’re still busy digging through the mine rocks
of our subconscious for some hope of gold ,
while on the other end of the world there are tribes of people
who are happy just to have charcoal to eat for dinner .
we live in a world ,
I tell her ,
where streets are filled
with the bodies of people who work harder trying to find
a place to live than the people with 5 million paychecks ,
and those bodies get stepped over like doorsteps just the same .
where “ soup kitchen " is a synonym for “ system failure ,"
where sometimes the pops of firecrackers and gunshots
are indistinguishable .
here in america ,
I say , we wear
those pops like bling rings on our index and middle fingers ,
and we flip the middle one at anyone who dares to suggest
that handling a gun like a solution is actually the thing
that creates the problem in the first place .
my four-year-old sister
wants to know about how come
we tighten our coats and purses closer to our bodies
whenever we pass someone of a different color on the street ,
and I tell her that in america ,
we only trust the people
who’ve got the same color of a mood ring as we do .
we live in a place , I tell her ,
where the system has failed
but then again ,
the system wasn’t very much
of a system in the first place.

still faced child ,
the memories slide against your skin
almost as easily as your makeup .

you don't forget on accident ;
you forget because it's convenient .

something tells me
that it's getting hard to juggle the memories
that you want to remember
and the ones you want to make disappear .

your atlas eyes
take me
to the trailer in petersburg ;
to the cozy neighborhood in warsaw ;

to the dead man in the basement
in dayton ,
with his head on the tile
that was stained red
and the needle
next to his limp hand .

lucky you
that you got to see him .
that you saw his face .
that you were the first to see his
body as relaxed as it was .

a couple days later
you dressed in black
and saw his body again ;
not quite as relaxed ,
and without the lazy smile tracing his closed eyes .
he was stiff as a board ,
and had as much emotion as one .

his sister has gotten a tattoo ,
her arm still sore to the touch
as she recieved hugs
from family and friends and other people
who had that same
lazy smile on their lips
and around their eyes .

the tattoo told you the year he was born
and his name
and the current year
and that he had gone fishing somewhere .
there was a colorful fish between
the sloppily-gathered information ,
greens and yellows and browns .

you look her in the eye ;
she looks like you do
when you are trying to catch the good times that are flying
away ,
caught in the breeze
of ****** ,
and of the funeral feel .

it's sad .. because she has bad memory
and you can tell .

you hug her ,
and make sure not to touch her arm .
it's a sacred limb
that she will skim her fingers against in the mirror
so that she may collect
the good times
and sit down to dinner with them
on sunday evenings
instead of going to church
and sleeping through a sermon .

....

maybe
she will invite you over
for dinner
with her beautiful stories
and her memories
caught fresh from the sky .

**the lord only knows
how much she needs to move
her mouth ;
how much she needs
to speak .

i was raised up
to sing ,
and to praise god ,
and to say amen .

nothing else .

but as i live this life
with all of the forks
in my yellow brick road ,
that i was urged to travel on
by people in my life
who i realize now
were children
compared to people who cared ,

i see no god .
i see no praise ,
for him or anyone else
that is said to deserve it .

i hear no singing .
just see thousands of quarter notes
in a hymnal book that five people
pick up
and study , like it's their job .

i hear no independent amen .
it is only said after one person's prayer
is finished
and after they have used
pointless
s p a c e f i l l e r s .

" dear
lord , we just thank you father
for the day to day lord . and
god , we just love you lord . and heavenly father ,
we would like to pray, lord , for those who couldn't
make it to this service tonight , god .
remember , dear lord , our soliders , god .
remember those of your children , father ,
who have strayed from you path god , and
please help them dear jesus to
find their way way back to you , heavenly father .
in jesus' name . amen ."

THEY KNOW WHO THEY ARE PRAYING TOO .
THEY NEED NOT A REMINDER EVERY SECOND .

i bet god gets sick
of his own name .

i bet he changed it
like mom does when the kids say "MOM"
too much .

maybe that is why prayers
aren't getting answered anymore .


i bet he changed it to something awesome , too .

like Spacefiller Christ .



i think a chorus of silent , heartfelt prayers
and hushed amen's
would be more beautiful
than any robotic , unified repeat ;
more beautiful
than any hymn .






STOP .


you are not just
one of god's children ;
you are whatever you want to be .

god is not glenda
and the devil does not only reside
in the west .

life was made
for you to awaken
from this controlled dream
and hug your auntie em
and to work on the farm in kansas
until you get the money to go
where you want to go .

you don't need to click your heels .
not even once .




you just need to wake up .

hands on her shoulders
hair down her back
lying to her daughter at home
making barely enoough money to feed
the posibilty of another mouth
another life

she drove seventeen hours to be crumpled
like dust

words hurt when you wait too long
words hurt when she is in your arms
words hurt when they're spat out of a poisonous mouth
words hurt when they're inked to her flesh

but in her anger
she's a fire
raging
in her arms she holds her heart
not on her sleeve just yet
but pretty ******* close

she is honest
not to her daughter
but as a mother

where he sleeps
is where she falls

to another addiction
to another shot of liquid feel-good
to another love

she has a broken heart
that she is trying to sew up
and a tattoo
to prove it

the spring after we both killed ourselves ,
I with a box cutter to the wrists and
you by leaping off the roof
of your business partner’s fourteen-story office , the crocuses
came up as usual , yellow tongues
like saxophones poking
through the earth .
when you arrived to pick me up ,
I answered
the door in my underwear since ghosts have no need
for either clothing or modesty .
you stood on your tiptoes
to kiss me , and when our mouths touched we felt
that old familiar wound
of self-pity .
at the tattoo parlor ,
so I could get the vertical scars
on my wrists inked back on in a
stronger color ,
the artist
would not let a dead couple through his door .
I pleaded with him that we would tell no one else ,
that we were not like the usual dead , not scary ,
not like zombies or ****** gang members , but to no avail .
at the café where we next stopped for raspberry lattes ,
the other patrons stared at us without inhibition ,
searched the air for the smell of rot .
there was none .
later , at home after the movie in which everyone left
to sit in another theater after we entered the doors ,
you gave me a bouquet of flowers that wilted in my hands
as soon as I touched them .
we were lovers
that had lived and died together , and our date ended as
they always had in life : with both of us trying not to cry
looking at the floor and wishing we could be more
than our shared self-hatred .

a pause                                 a little emptiness

each year harder to live within .

each year harder to live without .

and I'm finding it hard
to live at all
with the loud pauses ;
with the tiring emptiness .
something has to give .
oh , what I would
give
to have you here .
it's black outside , black enough
to hide my sins ,
and I want you to see me
like this .
pure .
innocent .

I love                                                   you
more than you will ever
see ;
more than you will ever
begin to fathom .

blind yourself
with the dark of night ,
and visit me
with closed eyes ;
visit me
with open lungs
and an open soul .

sometimes goodness comes

from treating yourself

not like you burned earth to dust

but like you made it

into a beautiful body . 

crowned it with stars ,

put a precious coat over it

and called it home .