Before my uncle
Johnny "Cash"
González died,
I had already ******
my Russian girlfriend
countless times
and in several positions.
He told me about
wearing condoms,
gentle *******,
which my girl liked,
and bongs for ****.
He was against ******,
hitting women,
and spit as ****.
Because of his insistence,
I could play the guitar,
read chords,
and sing blues.
He also taught me
how to roll dice
and bluff in poker;
it was all about
tricking eyes
and ****** up hands.
Right before
he closed his eyes,
he whispered and laughed
that I was ready to make
the world cry.
I got it when he said
******* and kisses
were the kept secrets;
beer not water
was fuckingly good
for filtering smoke;
die or dice,
about surviving
in the streets of sharks;
Folsom ... Blues,
a prison song;
or man's worth,
his **** and pride.
But world crying
sounded Greek to me.
Not into poems,
flowery words,
or emotional ****,
I had no clue
until I stabbed
my girlfriend's brother
who wanted to **** out
his sister for dope.
He hurt Oksana and me
and tested my manhood.
I was prepared to go
to jail for that disrespect.
So I willingly did
to stay there for a while,
and the world cried.
My childhood buddies,
friends at work,
and even neighbors
showed up to console
my mom and dad.
I was a good kid
with a good personality
and a good job
and a good future.
My baby sister
Elena Marie
suffered from asthma,
and I made her sob;
that ******* hurt,
and her hug was tight.
The trial began,
and my lawyer argued
self-defense;
that ****** was no saint.
Eventually I received
a unanimous acquittal,
but was never the same.
I used what I learned
from my dead uncle,
preyed on anyone,
and did not really care
if the world wailed.
Last spring
it was writing poetry
in New Folsom.