boys like you smell of mint and wood and pain
and taste like my insatiable thirst and the midsummer rain

bringing an array of gifts to girls like me
chocolate for breakfast and heartbreak for afternoon tea

boys like you rarely have time to stop, stare and rue
but boy, time stops to stare at you

boys like you bolt their hearts in golden chains
and have vengeance in their eyes and titanium in their veins

an impenetrable fortress deaf to my love's incessant humming
Boy you are my wreckage, my destruction.
My unbecoming.

your cherry lip gloss packs a punch.
i never wanted to sober up
from that punch drunk lust.
prom night while i lie on my left side
i hear tinnitus flirting with my right ear
she breathes into me heavily
the memory that you've been here and
i'll never feel pain like that again.
so i'll bite into my own lip until i come to understand
that wet metallic sensation
and the throbbing skin that
is passion.

ares,
wake your son.
tell him the battle will go away if he keeps his eyes
open long enough.
tell him that his mind is his greatest
comrade and enemy,
and that he does not need to know
when which is which just yet; but to
trust himself enough to
live with the consequence of either.

ares,
wake your son.
tell him to find his mother within him,
and not look to you and your plights as a
reflection.
he was born from love and war,
love and war,
and more time was spent in the womb of
the prior; that wars have been
waged for the word,
and resolved by the same.

ares,
wake your son.
remind him that, while the
sun does not revolve around him,
it depends on what he determines his
sun to be.
may he have many
and learn to appreciate them equally.
i am too old to keep making stars.
the sky is full.

ares,
wake your son.
press your thumb to his forehead,
wrap your arm around his shoulder,
he needs to know that he is cared for,
though i cannot understand;
who has he met that has told him otherwise?
touch him only if he asks,
but read his eyes- he is asking.

ares,
wake your son.
the son of war has battled.
tear him from the lip of vulcan,
remind him of the mistakes of troy,
teach him what these men did not have
that he does.
if he does not,
remind him that while he is your seed,
he is the nephew of athena.
promise him he can learn-
he can.

ares,
wake your son.
the son of love is loved.
wake him to remind him he is alive-
poseidon likes to play games,
and he seems to have gotten to his mind.
he has not yet drowned,
and he never will.
****** will bring him up with winds,
it is up to him to fall or ride them.

ares,
wake your son.
he has grieved too long
over battles he has not yet fought
and may never have to.

ares,
wake your son.

Living at hard angles,
the hemophilac in the razor blade factory
a diabetic making chocolate,
the alcoholic cooking with vanilla

A car running out of oil
in the great Mojave Desert
broke down,
while heading to Paradise, Nevada

Life at hard angles,
hard to get started
hard to get around

Rent gas water, electric insurance garbage,
car needs tires, internet phone
food
whose ever screaming the loudest
bank accounts have been known to go to zero

Cry all night

We're going to hold on to each other tight
it's all temporary
Even when you're sleeping hard
living at hard angles.

it’s hard to wake up
from a nightmare
if you aren’t even
asleep

IT’S 2:38 AM BUT I NEVER SLEEP
ANYMORE BECAUSE
OVERTIME I CLOSE MY EYES
YOUR PICTURE BURNS IN MY
EYELIDS AND THE THOUGHT
OF YOU SITS IN THE BACK
OF MY BRAIN