Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a ****** through  
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a *** getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or  
Something like
That, I don’t
Remember
Really.
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see
The
Marks
From
The
Needle.