Today, today
you suffered loses
life and death
a strange promise,
The Devil's disciples
we must be,
day by day
pulling the trigger,
More than enough
young men in vain
have to die,
This must be Hell's Anniversary

midday he filled his house with dogs and burned it.  he entered a nearby car he mistook for abandoned.  he sobbed so loudly my mother had only worry about being seen.  a few of the dogs made the baby pool, emerged, and leaned toward town.  he stopped sobbing for a moment to mock rev the engine and turn the wheel.  my mother banged her forehead twice on the floor of the car.  the man resumed sobbing.  my mother slept like a baby might sleep in a motel room with two televisions.  she thinks he was able to turn one of them off.

Your eyes mirrored pools of black
ink and I never knew that the flask
in your pocket would keep me wide
awake into the morning.

The olivine porch outside your country
home was shaped with darker thoughts
and milkweed seed that left me
wondering how you wake in winter.

You lived as a sleeper in the valley
with a zirconium smile and when light
rained down the glass of your hanging lanterns
would break across the sky.

The smoothness of smoke that wrapped
around my lungs kept me lurking
in the corners of drowsy living
and drunken rainbow fires.

You could never offer me more
than what I already had.
So as with everything, the end came
and now the wind is blowing prismatic stars.

oh, here they are.  the interested persons we will find later.  for now, this field.  my gestural father holding a broom for what he calls the welcome mat of exodus.  if my mother is watching it is because she long ago dropped birds from a single passenger plane.  if instead she is privately seen by god, then the whole bird thing was a bit of a stretch.  in memory alone I am alone.

I am told by the bulb of this reading light to fear my father.  to fear the midsize pig he holds to his chest.  I am scared enough to know the bulb is my father’s failing heart.  I am brave enough to be nothing but confused by the pig.  in real time my father is taping together the eaten film of a videocassette.  a film that yesterday had him jumping up and down.

notes on the boy

his sickness is a hotel.  

his health
the failing eyesight
of his father
     the soon to be famous
window washer.

his dream
a documentary
on falling.

     some watch
the room they were in
from the room
they are.

I'll freestyle this,
As is done the love on my lips.
There's too much that the human mind,
Leaves tightly capped inside.
Every pressure of this universe,
Laced upon a scripted source; of negativity.
It's all too real to me, I'm blind.
But as a mother once said,
There's more than tears to shed or eyes to cry.
But look instead, in the love soaked parts of our minds.
Expel all you can that's captured there,
Expose yourself completely bare and let them see,
Through all this you'll survive...