He cries, tells her it's the last time.
Cherry lips and violet eyes,
She lies because she's so broken
She can't remember how it felt to be whole.
A boy too small to fight,
Though that doesn't stop him from trying;
A little girl who will never know that love doesn't include bruises and broken bones.
She could leave,
But she knows he'd find her as he has so many times,
Wandering the highway somewhere between the 5th and 9th time
She ponders whether it hurts worse to live or die.
Her baby in her arms and one trailing behind,
A shotgun aimed between her eyes,
She'll climb inside his old blue pickup truck,
Which is somehow colder than the October night.

She hears the whispers—
Illegal. Dependent. Brainless.
Can they not see their own reflection in her tired eyes
And realize that if the stars aligned differently,
They could have been the one wearing sweaters in the summer
And sunglasses in the grocery store?
As she pushes the shopping cart home,
She says a silent prayer that he'll be gone,
But he never is.
When her nose bleeds on the tile
She no longer cries,
Just syncs the pounding in her head with her heartbeat, screaming,
It's over. It's over. It's over. It's—

On misty recalled mornings
  'pon a haze of vindication's wake
  you can still hear their whispers
    echoing through distressed treetops,
they were lovingly planted midst
         meadow's wildflower embrace
    gazing into the depths of surmise,
         planning their rendezvous to forever*

when her husband abruptly surprised them
      with a double blunderbuss shotgun blast,
            right between their cheating hearts

   ~ *if you listen intently, their spirits
               linger still amid bluff's bluster

Old Betsy is my shotgun and she keeps most salesmen away.
But some come on my property but they sure as hell don't stay.
Old Betsy shoots the hats off of their heads and she shatters their windshields.
Because of Old Betsy, they drive away because they think that they'll be killed.
One man took off running and left his car behind.
I don't know who he was but now his car is mine.
One salesman thought that I'm a transvestite because he had heard rumors.
That **** ***** was trying to sell me a dress and a pair of women's bloomers.
I shot the cigar right out of that idiot's mouth.
He jumped in his car and started driving south.
They try to unload junk on me but because of Old Betsy, they fail.
If you ever come on my property, you'd better not be trying to sell.

Old Betsy is my shotgun and she's the reason why I don't keep my money in a bank.
When people try to steal my money, they learn that Old Betsy isn't filled with blanks.
People break into my house but they end up not leaving.
Because of Old Betsy, the **** thieves stop breathing.
The crooks think they're intelligent, they think they're pretty sharp.
But thanks to Old Betsy, a lot of them wind up playing harps.
A lot of people have tried to steal my money but they failed.
If you try to rob me, you'll get a taste of Old Betsy as well.

I never realized it would come down to this

Walking on eggshells like broken bottles
Praying my hand won’t clutch down on the throttle
Cause between the other side and I is only a mile
And all my second chances lie in the corner stacked in a pile

Often enough, I visit these ghosts and ask if I can stay awhile
And despite the fact that their intentions are as transparent as their torsos,
Sometimes I can’t see through their smile

When ‘scared shitless’ is an understatement
And the best part of this day was just surviving this day
Hope seems to find its way out when you can’t
But always leaves a note explaining why it couldn’t stay

So I’ll continue to let myself hate

You told me I could be so much better
And wouldn’t have to wait until night to embark
Well some shadows are darker than others
And you aren’t the one with eyes that glow in the dark

Because hiding my fangs is the closest thing to love I’ve ever met
And when you tell me you love me,
Regrets fire through my head like shotgun blasts carrying a threat
They say, “You don’t love me, you just don’t hate me yet”

And I don't want you to hate me

So yeah I still sleep with one eye open
But I’m also awake with one eye shut
And I’m living with one foot in the grave
But dying with one hand digging it’s way up

I’d be happy to die a martyr
Anything not to die alone
And I’d be happy to walk a little bit farther
If I knew I was almost home

But instead my heart keeps beating on in spite of itself like a broken wind-up doll waiting for the timer to run out
And finally catch a good night’s sleep

But a good night’s sleep
Is harder to find when you’re six feet deep
Just praying to god the bell actually rings
And someone above somewhere is actually listening

But they aren’t
At least I don’t believe they are

So I’ll hold my breath and hope
Hope god didn’t give the noose the strength to hold its iron grip around my throat
And wait for the air to find its way back into my lungs
In the meantime, studying the way the rope is strung

And I’m afraid to change
But I think I’m more afraid of staying the same

So I’ll move to the edge and etch a sketch
To remind myself it’s less about how far you can reach
And more about how far you’re willing to stretch.

Alright.
So you wanna know how to write
a poem.
Well, before we do anything else
I want you to take your pencil,
and break it against your desk.
You’re not gonna need it.
Go to your kitchen
grab a glass mixing bowl, and
pour as many prompts into that bowl
as you see fit.
Maybe crack open a rhyme or two,
cause trust me,
you’ve got time
to watch this poem come to life
inside your mind.
Next, add two cups
of melted controversy
cause hey, you gotta keep people talkin’
and talkin’ and talkin’
cause if you don’t, they’ll be walkin’ away
from that scoop of insane sifted
alliterations you were stocking up on.
Maybe to give it a little zest,
even if it doesn’t make sense
to anyone but you,
throw some “quotes” around
a song lyric or two,
cause you are in charge of this.
So, carry on my wayward son,
my angel with  shotgun,
mix it up
and let it bake on the tip of your tongue
and then
spit it out.

She soldiers on
with a limp
from an old gunshot wound
that put a stammer in her soul.

She hesitates upon standing,
and often winces at an over-hastened step.
Stairs are her nightmare, as is most anything up.
Like being trapped
in a cage made of rubber bands
she is limited, but can force her way
in some direction.

She wont tell you how she got it
nor even where it really is.
The thigh, the hip, the gut; as is anyone's guess.

My money's on somewhere else.

She is dissolved in some solution
made with three parts carbolic acid
two parts toothsome regret
one part
pure concentrated time.

If I could pick her up and carry her
I would
but she
would scream, and kick, and holler
I know. So I'll let her limp
It's her way.

I don't mean to be trigger happy.

Red reeds and a freckle of flowers bowing
before rubber wheels
tossing pebbles and sand and a whirlwind of dust.

Their plan had caught wind and taken flight against them,
like an ardent breath that leaps from battle chests
that knowingly march somewhere behind the tall thick of trees.

The rain won the sprint before the inky giants (stuck in the review mirror)
and began to speckle the seats from the gaping sunroof,
but the lovers hadn’t noticed.

Their hearts beat in unison, adrenaline seemingly driving the engine.
Four, bone-white knuckles chocking to hang on:
one pair on the steering wheel, one on the other’s shoulder, and one on the door handle.

The tires drop off and bash themselves against the stones
beneath a spray of clay and water and maggots,
as they swerve off the beaten path.

They wade through the churning waves of grasses
the wind now rushing past, splashing against their spine –
their naked necks and tangled locks swimming in the invisible rapids.

Their sanctuary lay before the whirlpools,
deeply rooted, scarred with letters, scarred with hearts,
and beautifully draped with thin weeping twigs, tied off with lace.

The car’s backend swung as the tires drifted.
The two men flung themselves inside the umbrella of branches,
untied the lacy bows, and drew the curtains closed

The willow tree would have to stand in for their officiant,
for their family, their friends, their honored guests and witnesses,
for they had none.

They both stood in front of the tree as the wind swayed,
once from behind him, and then once from behind him,
all the while their tearful eyes exchanged  silent “I dos”.

The one reached inside a burrow beneath the great trunk,
to retrieve their rings and crowns of flowers,
while the other anxiously stood watch behind him, awaiting the thunder.

Gentle hands ringed their fingers with silver bands,
and crowned their heads with white and blue petals,
then carefully chiseled into the bark their names and their heart with a pocket knife.

The two men pressed their palms to the tree to receive their blessing,
and then pressed their lips together, now salty and wet,
sealing their souls with a slow passionate kiss.

But instead of a burst of rice freely sprinkling the atmosphere
there was a burst of shotgun pellets
tearing through the whispers of love and leaves.

The men sprinted to the car,
dodging the fires of intimidation,
and drove off with their life, leaving behind the fear and shame.

They turned on the heater to try to warm up.
but it was long before they were dry,
the rain’s echo nearly drowning out the sounds of their shared breaths.