I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.

Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.

From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
...........................­..­....

I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

an exercise in trust:
her white nisan maxima speeds down the roadway.
speeding away from my sixty-dollar loan?
speeding away from my repayment?

i say:
check your pockets!
                                             check your purse!
              check your wallet!
                                  check between the seats!
                            there it is.

why am I here anyway?
choose one of the following: (desperation/generosity)
__

the maxima now wanders aimlessly
through unknown city streets
far from home
on the laziness of pet merchants:
an exercise in trust.
__

a fib is told, biding for time
two
three
a hundred fibs for the hundred unwary,
an exercise in fate.

I remembered how the doors in my apartment are very tall,
how my belt is short,
and how I begin all my relations with goodbye

Do you remember that old quick stop
(they tell me it's a drug store now)
where we would get our beer each Saturday?

The clerk would ask "The usual?"
even though we were underage
and slip me a can and you a bottle.

I could hold my liquor well.
I always offered to trade with you
but you insisted on the bottle.

We'd drive to a far out field,
the sun giving way to the horizon,
and lie down in the grass.

The can served just enough to get me
buzzed,
but you poured yours out before it was finished-
you might have gotten drunk.

When the sun had set one night
you gave me the news.

I said,
"Put in the effort to tip back
your bottle.
It holds more than you think."

But you were my can.

I put little stock in counseling, simply because it doesn’t work for
me. That’s reasonable. right?
That’s why I’m not
going back.
Because contrary to the initial irrational paranoid belief held by
not me, I was not
***** by anyone this last July, I am not
an altered boy.

Repression? Obsessions? Depressions?
You’re right, in a sense. I was not
***** by one man this last July, I was
***** by the whole church for the past 18 years.
I learned, or perhaps deduced, from Sunday School
that all *** is sin
that inanimate objects had a goodness or badness about them
that Satan was in my head (by this I was terrified)
that all my friends were going to Hell (by this I rebuked them and was never forgiven)
that its true: my parents would have gotten me ****** to death in biblical times
because they love me
that I could choose who I was attracted to (apparently by watching straight ****)
that God needs money
that the Internet is of the devil >mfw intellectual open market
that I could only achieve ****** once in a lifetime >mfw I came
that God’s love is conditional
that electronics are a sin if they make noise and are inside a specific building
that all Muslims are terrorists
that I’m worthless because I’m a sinner
that I’m inherently evil.

And I still miss it sometimes.
I miss the taste of Christ’s ****.

Virginia and Maxwell are the skin that will grow
together to cover the wound,
and I am the IV.

“This will only take a few minutes,”
I reassure them as
the vein is struck.
So much blood fills the bag
in five short seconds.

I remove the needle
and trek across hospital halls,
up and down elevators,
through pristine rooms,
to the Intensive Care Unit,
to a dying man
named Anthony
in dire need of a transfusion.

“This will only take a few minutes,”
the vein is struck.
The jealous blood exits the bag
in five short seconds.
But I wish they were at least years.

You are a virus absorbed through the eyes and ears
that attacks the soul. You are nothing more
than your own vaccine
and antibodies are rushing up to exterminate you.

youth–

someday soon we’ll sit in silent solitude
content and cautiously counting hours
until mid-august’s arrival;
and on that day i’ll wonder to myself:
is this the best that i can do?

– your dearest beauty

oh, god bless america,
the nation of narcissistic narcoleptics,
and protect her from harm
while she takes her afternoon nap.

oh, god save the stagnant,
all living to die,
so their bellies may be crowded
and their hearts pounding
so fast,
so fast,
for you, heavenly father.

give us this day
our daily fourty-four ounce soft drink
and quarter pound burger...
and don't forget the fries.

and forgive us our intolerance,
just as we...
err...
nevermind.

forgive us,
for we know not what we do.

amen.

April's flames made the friendliest fire,
although I feared they would
char and consume my life
and leave it but smoking cinders.

Friendly, fragile...
a single tear could put them all out.

April's flames shone brighter than the
sun.
They shed new light.
I could see things that
the shadows kept to themselves,
disguised as if some kind of treasure,
but the truth was that they were only
burdens.

April's flames lit two packs of cigarettes,
thirty-one thousand candles,
and a cozy fireplace
for thirty-one nights
where I would sit and rest knowing
the fire had not gone out.
I could feel it back then.

April's flames were lit in  March
and snuffed abruptly in mid-May,
but if I have some lighter fuel
I'll rekindle them some August day.

Are you a lie?
Are you ashamed?
Have you given up?
Who drowned you in that murky water,
saying "Nobody has to know?"

Step in, step in!
Your weary eyes don't match your expression;
let me help you stitch up your style.
Rid yourself of this black concealer!
Are you even there?

Why do you torture yourself in the corner?
Your eyes glaze over when I walk by;
sometimes I wonder if you have gone blind.

Dig, deep and wide, the void that you try so hard to fill,
and bury the past that has possessed you;
bury the loved ones who ****** you.
The enemies of the empty closet whisper,
"Nobody has to know."
But everyone has to know
because you torture yourself in the corner;
your eyes glaze over when I walk by;
sometimes I wonder if you have gone blind.

Why do you torture yourself in the corner?
Your eyes glaze over when I walk by;
sometimes I wonder if you have gone blind.

Oh, hell! Open your gates,
let your demons out!
Let new ones make Satan's company!
Drag sinful beauty in by the ankles,
hoist her high, broadcast her *******
screaming,
she pleads to return to the sweet plain of id.
Smelt her soul, and ornament your gate!
Oh, hell! Oh, my heart! Oh, hell!

To fill my glass
necessitates I drink it.
When I turn the heater on,
I must wait to feel its warmth.
If I begin to write a poem,
I must continue to its completion.
If I load a gun and **** it
and **** on the barrel,
then I must follow through and pu

approximately forty forked tongues
made love to my ego yesterday
for envy,
and in this way they paid me
my overdue reparations.
i'm cool with that, bro.
what else you have for me?

exactly five tickling fingers
graced the nape of my neck today
for boredom,
for monogamy,
and in this way the human finds
that he's been human all this time.
fine with me, miss forbidden.
tell me, what's next on the agenda?
what conquests await me
just inside Freedom's gate?

two eyes for fifteen-odd-something teenage girls
gets to be confusing,
but
it's better than the day-after-day,
week-after-week,
month-after-month,
year-after-yea­r
quicksand whirlpool of
"oh, i wonder what's on the one-track telly today?"
and only getting some advertisement for
quote unquote
"******* miraculous" Axe body spray.

70 mile per hour, one-way nighttime highway;
cars still **** past.
some with one headlight,
     but most with none,
          but all with horns, horns, horns
blaring, "Bryan! Your brights are blinding me!"

Old 50's culture pitches me his deceitful realtorality from the passenger's seat,
assuring me all is picturesque clean
when,
     in fact,
behind his plaster hair
and plastic smile
and porcelain eyes,
disaster lies- a land mine.

Bombs-BOOM-bombs explode coldly,
leaving none to not witness fulfilled prophecy
and say,
"He's dead.
He's really, really dead."

I gave him eighteen years, thousands in gas money, and more music than he deserved, and all I got in return was a subscription to Fox News– which, by the way, is a complete ******* “thank you” gift because you can fool yourself into believing anything.

        "You know what's going to happen tomorrow? Rain!" when in fact I'm certain its going to be a scorcher.

He sits bedside, making horrible jokes and bringing up remember-that-times. When will he ever pay the rent? Even though he doesn’t sleep here– he never sleeps– he should at least pay me in something other than beheading-dreams. And in the shower we review ****** flaws, and in the mirror we recount all the mean things I ever said or did to him for being such an insufferable *******.

“Stop it.”

He looks uncomfortable, not as sure of himself. He ponders what I meant for a while, opens his mouth to rebut and gets another stop it.

“Stop it. Get a job.” Because he contributes nothing.

“But you should…”

“Stop it. Get a job, because all I’m gaining from us right now is a bunch of lies. Quit watching Fox News.”

“Listen here, ******–“

“Stop it. Get a job. Quit watching Fox News.” And he leaves for a couple hours.





He knocks.

“Stop it.”

The knocking stops.

chalk candies
all printed thereon
different names for the same thing:
a cry for help.
all different colors,
different lies,
but all leave that
disgusting aftertaste you get from candy hearts,
which is precisely why they're not a staple of my diet.
they're good for throwing away in puddles.

there goes one for emily stein.
there goes one for denira queen.
there goes one for jilian quandison.
one by one, letting go of memories.
there goes one for spirit newberry.
there goes one for krystin bullard.
there goes one for tandra wood.
one by one, loosing old ties.

there goes lucy, and grace, and sarah,
long gone.
the box is almost empty.

here's one for kimberly rhodes,
the one i should have held on to.
here's a deformed one for nicole watson,
and a few for  the rest of my detritivores.
here's one for anne folderol,
truly folderol,
and a few for the others i could save from low grade lowlifes.
here's one for lisa noble,
two years older.
and at last, one for candice coyle,
out of reach.

i'll keep the box.

could i, would i
mutiny this life,
or trade it in
for fewer fears
and fonder friends?
could i, would i
quaff this night
the nepenthean
elixir of forgiveness
and make amends?
would that i could.
so,
could i, would i
sacrifice
a stable mind
for progress sake,
erase the line
that i have drawn
to suffice
a mad desire
to taste the softest flesh,
yet tame the fire?

could i, would i?
would that i could.

Hold me up to the sun and it becomes clearer
I'm counterfeit:
I clip my style from trashed magazines.
I've built a persona from bricks without straw.
Hold me up to the sun, and
you'll find no watermarks.

Too much, the number of days spent
                            wasting away
learning how to
                            not waste away
and then
                            wasting away
                                                    the next day
                                                                          anyway.

Too far, the sum total of all those futile miles,
running toward "a better tomorrow"
and then having
                              a better next twenty minutes.

Too hopeless, now I cast
the past's ashes into the air
and subsequently wallow in them.

she said

"i'll teach you to love,
just draw nearer to me.
draw nearer to me
and i'll make you mine."

as she

laced up her best heels
put on her best face
and applied another coat
of liquid vanity.

as i
made an effort to

concoct a new way to say
"no"

and

ignore the
rotting
carcasses of
hearts
that strewed the floor.
i'd seen her kind before
"but losing you would be a chore
my darling detritivore"

i said

I took a walk down the road that marks
where the outskirts of town begins.
I don't know where it goes.
All I know is that it's a straight line
and I'll end up somewhere if I keep walking.
So, not wanting to end up like
one of those stupid kids in the scary movies,
I walked back home
a little faster than I had come.

There's an overcrowded pool in the center of town.
It's a wonder nobody's drowned yet.
I went to the dollar store and bought a Snickers,
the rest you can read about in the paper,
front page.
Most interesting thing that's happened here in years.

Flipped off the old ***** who thinks
people shouldn't be free to express love...
just for the hell of it.

I sneaked out at night just to see the town-
dead after 8:00-
and to pretend the world was mine
until the cops showed up.
I didn't know there was a curfew.
Who cares, that was a great feeling.

Time in the summer is like a kidney stone,
because it's hard as hell to pass.

1.**

A horizontal fall
from the high-up slide
made for big kids was not
what I expected as I screamed
“Push me down, Haley!”

Unexpected, too, was the destruction of your wounded butterfly days later–
revenge is sweet, yet unsatisfying.
And then you left for six years,
turning up again as hormones
were in full swing
in our freshman year of high school.

2.

you said



"i'll teach you to love,

just draw nearer to me.

draw nearer to me

and i'll make you mine."



as you



laced up your best heels

put on your best face

and applied another coat

of liquid vanity.



as i


made an effort to


concoct a new way to say

"no"


and


ignore the 
rotting

carcasses of

hearts

that strewed the floor.


i'd seen your kind before


"but losing you would be a chore

my darling detritivore"



i said

3.

focus of a new kind sheds a big difference BIG DIFFERENCE upon your face bright yet shadows consume both it and your body like a prophecy. since when did that happen? so what if it never did? so you came to your senses; perhaps that was it. perhaps the realization of “you sure do know how to pick ‘em” broke you and now you’re left with a twelve-and-one-half-inch phallus in your big box of board games. we hardly speak anymore. i am now your temptress, detritivore and you’ll never escape never escape the howls of agony and desire releasing themselves from your joints your muscles your heart aches for fresh meat and you get it, **** you. you get it daily for viewing pleasure. dear heavens speak of shabby apartments and televisions that don’t work. they never knew how to comfort me; so why should they now? falling down the stairs into the pitch black night irreversible womb child conceived on camera and carried to term on God’s watch. do you remember pushing me down that slide in the second grade? it’s your turn.

4.

Unexpected, too, was the destruction of my wounded memory
of an innocent girl from second grade
now in chains and leather,
used and watched and seen and lusted over and masturbated over,
but for a hefty sum.

And I still see second grade Haley
and we still talk
and we share the occasional cigarette
and we tell of our conquests.
But I am no savior–

5.

Feeling vibrations in my palm is finding decaying matter on the forest floor to eat–
the words they carry are a substitute for nutrition.
The nearest bounty of corn is a thousand miles away,
for God places us here and our placement is the source of life’s cruelty.
And second-grade Victor would happily take a beating
for gas money; desperate detritivore–
feast on decaying matter, get your fill
and one day substance of corn will fill your stomach
and you will hibernate indefinitely.

Just a little makeup
and that way they won’t know–
some concealer on my cheeks
and my hair placed just so.



Perhaps a little more,
so I can feel who I am inside;
to distract myself from chest hair
and bruises to hide.

But everywhere,
on my neck: brown
on my body: purple
on the wall: red,
no makeup can hide.
God knows I’ve tried;
he just doesn’t listen.
I’ve longed to confide
in a word from his book
but the text suggests
his infallibility.
I know that’s a lie.
He is imperfection– just as I
am imperfection
on the outside.

Hey, you got your
freedom of religion
in my
freedom of speech!

herman harding showed me his truck today
in the muggy high school parking lot
in the sweltering sun
that could easily set my still temperament ablaze.
"she calls it the **** wagon."
he told me.
"she calls mine the firestarter."
i told him; he gave me a look.
"surprised?" i asked.

"so what do you think?"

"it's a battered wife."

"what the hell does that mean?"

"all bruised and broken down,
probably only runs because
you give it gas."

"it's a hand-me-down, okay?
so am i giving you a ride home,
or what?"

i crawled in the **** wagon.
"i should be getting my license soon."

"that's nice."
herman seemed uneasy.

"yep, i'll be driving by next school year."

"that's nice."

the truck had green seats
and a yellow dashboard.
obviously replaced.

approaching the highway,
i opened the glove compartment-
insurance information.
"you're telling me you bought insurance
for this *******?"

"why should you care?"

"i'm just wondering,
seems like a waste of money."

almost home,
i flip down the sun visor-
down flutter a couple of pictures of her
that shouldn't have been taken.
i flip the sun visor back up,
take a look at the photos,
and deposit them in the glovebox.
"tell me, herman:
do you like getting hand-me-downs?"

"get out of the truck."

i used to buy astronaut candy
when i was twelve.

in case you're wondering what astronaut candy is,
it's gelatinous goo that you squeeze from a tube.

the particular brand that we always bought
had a special tube.
it was dome shaped on top
with a hole in its concave center.

the point was,
you squeezed the tube,
out comes the goo,
and you lick it off;
most of us just ****** it out.

three varieties:
blue raspberry,
orange,
and everyones favorite,
white cherry.

in hindsight,
i guess that explains why so many of my friends
turned out to be so
"fabulous".

maybe we should've opted for the candy cigarettes.


nah.

****** pleasuring a plastic tube:
so much more fun.

while the rain cleans the air
i cleanse my mind of the present,
future,
past:
should'ves, could'ves, would'ves
and time's tick-tock knocking
on death's door.

i shed my black shirt and blue jeans,
and put on a pair of white trunks,
and take a walk.

all the dirt drips off in droplets,
all your dirt on me is void,
all the sweat and memories
all washed away, and oh what joy
it is to see it gone!

oh what a joy it is to see it
finally gone!

the sky is gray
                      and i don't care.
you've run away
                      and i dont care.
i'm feeling free
                      and i don't care.
you love me
                      and i don't care.

i see you
distraught and disconsolate,
cold tears and hot breath,
the wooden desk beneath you
will swell and sweat
if those tears don't dry soon.
you saw your Gamorrah
burned alive;
something within you strives
to keep it,
but no.
i say, let it go.

i saw my ***** smoking,
cried cold tears
and breathed hot breath,
wailed to the heavens
"sweet redemption!
is this my reward?
a paranoid drop
and a sudden stop?"
i kept looking back
and my tears turned me
into this pillar of salt before you.
so no,
i say, let it go.

God has an iPod
that syncs prayers.
It's a miracle he ever gets to
listen to any.
But he does,
and over eternity
he has become a little more
deaf.
He even issued a new commandment:
Thou shalt pray louder.
Did you not get the memo?

Well, he can't turn up the volume anymore
so pray louder.
There's the memo.

But praying louder now
probably won't do much good.
He's deaf
and his headphones are busted
and- last time I checked-
he didn't leave any guidelines
for submitting prayers in writing.
Welp, I guess we're *******.

jack casual was a hard workin' man,
put bread on the table,
kept the roof over our heads,
and kept that dog, nellie, from gettin' 'er sorry be-hind run over.
yep, ol' jack was worth his salt.
he used to play his acoustic for us
when we were tikes,
back when we had an air conditioner.

when it broke down,
ol' gran-pappy,
jack's dad,
had him run out to the store to buy a window unit
and a slurpie.
then pappy would stagnate all day
in the back room while we sweltered,
and he'd send me on errands on my bike,
and read week-old newspapers,
and yell at jack to
"pay the ******* bills"
at four in the morning.

jack wanted to send him to a "home",
but mama never did like them.
she said they were "unsafe",
"unsanitareh",
and "unhospitible".
so gran-pappy stayed.

yes sir-ee, gran-pappy stayed
for three long years
with his banjo
and the growin' pile of slurpie cups in the corner
of that back room where it was cool.
until that one night
when gran-pappy called mama
a name the dog had done learned to respond to,
and mama said,
"jack,
just put him in the home!
a lady shouldn't be treated upon
in this mannuh."

that was the last i ever did see
of ol' gran-pappy,
but i still remember the last words he said to us:

"...and bring me back a slurpie,
it's one hot ******* up in here
and i need somethin'
to cool me off a spell!"

I try to be distant.
Detatched.
Drink a 50 cent Mountain Dew.
Dressed all in black
on a blistering day.
My back is a waterfall.
Pop two more quarters in the machine.
The mass gathering makes this funeral home
feel more like a sweat lodge.

"It's cooler in the chapel"
but that's where the body is.

I enter the mock church house,
close my eyes in passing the casket,
and sit in the back,
where everyone obstructs my view
of...
it?
him?

Eulogy delivered.
Songs sung.
Get up and take your last look.
My pores become geysers.
He's too still.
Too quiet.
Too peaceful.
Three observations
in a third of a second.

I remember his voice,
the way his palm felt on mine,
shaking hands.
Shake the preachers hand.
Remember.
Pull away.

Pop two more quarters into the machine.
Wash my hands.
Twice.
Go out to the car
to try my best to calm down.

Intimacy framed
and hung for all to see
by none other than me
put you to shame,

and I fell off my ladder
hanging our moment
and you allowed me to
hit the cold ground
face first with a smack.

I kiss the ground.

I would have rather kissed your lips
but you can't trust me
not to tell.

Our hearts aflame
once with passion and desire
until this situation dire
burned them in a different way.

They're now charred forever
when you look in my eyes
all you see is a liar,
all I see is ice.

And to the man I credit this whole charade to:

Your mouth is as big as mine.
You should have known when I had said
my secret that it should go dead
to you and everything would work out fine.

And I laugh about it with you
but on the inside
I'm stabbing you with knives
as hot as her eyes were
when she found out I had let it slip.

That's pretty ******* hot.

Believe me, I know.

"who brainwashed you?"

asks the man
                           who feeds himself
to the nation's most beloved narcissist,
casts himself down its gullet,
and takes a seat in its stomach
three times a week
                         who mindlessly
propagates the propaganda
he declares to be doctrine
he testifies like truth
                         who would deny
God's holocaust,
would gas truthful love
in his basement,
burn the bodies
and burn the ashes,
the free minded ****
                         who hates the situation
but does nothing to change it.

"oh, this used to be the land of the free!"

drunk on self-righteousness,
inebriated waste.

Jack could fly, had he wings,
and would die, had he not the mind.
The clouds above were his limit,
and no further would he rise.

There were cities in the clouds
made for those who could reach,
and Jack's new springboard
could launch him a hundred feet.
He could arrive just in time
to claim his prize of pride
if he jumped now.

Jack's dreams mocked him,
but with his springboard unassembled,
he told himself "In due time."

Then the day came.

His palms were sweating,
his heart leapt,
he shook with the raw ambition
he was famous for
to join himself to that city.

He ran, and worked up a great speed,
hit the springboard,
flew upward and hit the ceiling
and fell to the carpet.

Finally seeing his springboard
for what it truly was-
worthless,
with broken breaths and watering eyes
and a seemingly indifferent disposition,
he placed the springboard in his closet,
and jumped back into the hole he had crawled out of,
months before.

Alyssa moves like she’s being watched
and watching me,
but the white-walled room, despite her husband’s presence
is empty.
Everything echoes.

Alyssa and I have serenaded the dead and dying weekly.
Today is no exception.
She performs, I just sing–
are my songs really any emptier than hers?
We and the dying clasp hands in a circle
and mimic a psychic raising of the dead.

Alyssa and I have sat through the same
cut-and-dry
hour-long condemnations
all our lives,
but she bought in and now moves
like she’s being watched,
at which I scoff.

Alyssa is not allowed into Business Meetings
because of sexist Paul,
and I make this known to a friend
I trust now more than Alyssa,
now happily chatting with the guy I was eying.

Alyssa’s father takes me aside
for inquisition.
I confess of my sin, but I do not repent.

Alyssa found out, and now my existence is *******.

The following is a true story. Regular words are the teacher, the quoted, myself.

-----

Today we are going to play

a word association game.

I will say a word,

and then you do the same.

Yellow.

"Yellow."

Blue.

"Blue."

That's not what I want you to do!

Say something different than what I say:

Cup.

"Up-cay."

Plate.

"Late-pay."

Book.

"Ook-bay."

Pe­ncil.

"Encil-pay."

Okay...

Kerosene passion,
matchbook teeth,
you strike your tongue
and breathe on me.

Poison envy, 
acid breath,
oh, how I'd dilute
all your wealth.

Silver beauty,
copper soul,
I know how quickly 
you'll corrode.

Brimstone anger,
iron face, 
come back again
and do your worst.

Dedicated to the ones who mock us
saying that they haven’t lost anything.

We flaunt flypaper photos,
hoping for horsefly quick fixes,
but I’m no longer
the person in my pictures,
but a spider.
Now, my red eyes burn–
boiling tears whose salt
cannot sustain me.
It’s also evident that
I’m gracelessly aging
as time flies faster;
I’m not having fun.

I’m not having fun.

He– external introspection:
embodiment of possibilities just out of reach.
He– the very visage of perfection,
anonymous, at least to me.
And here but an hour ago we were we.

Garrett let him in through the front door.
“I’m here to see Victor.”
“Sure, let me take you to his room.”
I’ll get questions tomorrow
for which I’ll have no answers or lies,
so I’ll tell the truth:
I poured my heart
into seven heavenly minutes,
only to find it unscathed.
Love is blind lust until
it suffers.

He leaves and I wait for confirmation
that we’ll never speak again.
And it comes.
And I think:
He might have been a pre-med student.
His favorite color might have been yellow.
He might have been able to sing.
He might have been living poetry.
He might have loved Jesus.
His faith in Jesus might have been unshakable.
His name might have been Bradley.
His best friend might have been his mother.

1– Most people try to avoid eye contact at all costs.
2– Most people either do not say "thank you" or mumble it as if it doesn't mean anything.
3– Most people act out of either self-interest or custom.
4– In most people, the maternal instinct is dead or at least deadened.
5– Most people don’t know how to control their child without using impact to the head or behind.
6– Children outnumber adults, and 20+ year-old children exist.
7– Most people will look for a scapegoat in even a mildly adverse situation, even if one doesn’t exist.
8– Most people have no sense of respect and are therefore not deserving of respect.
9– Most people do not recognize the humanity of others. (See Nos. 1-5, 8)
10– Most people have lost their humanity, also known as their soul.

Ms. Disappointment stares out her window,
aware she's crushed a heart today.
For the millionth time
she gets on the line;
tries to make up some excuse
but I know she's a good liar.

Ms. Disappointment "can't stand it anymore";
tries to make me turn my head.
"Just one last kiss?"
Can you kiss my fist?
Someones got an anger issue,
but it really comes in handy.

Ms. Disappointment doesn't know where she went wrong.
She thinks I was her "one last chance".
But the idea went sour
passing through my cell phone tower.
Tone does not reflect through words,
so love turned out to be the birth of hate.

"Oh, can't you just stay a little longer?"
My dear, why would you want me to?
"Because I love you!" Oh, don't feed me that ****.
My heart's done callused
and all's gone to hell.

Mindy takes a seat opposite me,
as if we're about to engage in some serious conversation.
Christmas carols would make the background stale
if there was no twist to them.
"Thanks for buying the ice cream," she reiterates for the fourth time,
her potential lover-girl Jaclyn repeating the sentiment half-heartedly.

"It's no problem."
I reply with my usual comeback.
"I'm sorry Daniel couldn't come.
He had excuses
akin to my last three boyfriends,
and you know how long those lasted.
It's enough to make me want to go straight."

"I can make you straight."

"What?"

"What?"

And we continue as if nothing happened.
Jaclyn eats her ice cream as Mindy shares hers with me.
It has a twang to it, a strange flavor she made herself
that you wouldn't expect to be so good until you tried it.

Deep in my core, that ice cream sent a chill through my body–
a chill of uncertainness.

I will not go get baptized
for I fear the judgment
day.

To live in sin and
descend to the six-foot pit
sits better.

An empty label lingers
until you’re deemed clean
for further consumption.

Our filled label flies
off the tongue like
sour milk.

So come, fellow MSM–
let’s go down to the river
to pray.

you are a butterfly among the moths,
a honeybee amidst the wasps,
ms. unattainable.
you are a living,
breathing
undertaking.
so why try at all
if the envied one
has already
set his sights
on you?

Tell me, kid, you got a life?
Because I'll buy it off of you!
Name your price!
I'll trade you all my thoughts,
my chords, my words,
for that life you've got.

Tell me, kid, have you a lover
past your hand?
Name your price!
You want memories,
secrets, lust?
I own it all, and all could be yours!

Tell me, kid, have you a friend
past yourself? I'll buy him off of you.
Name your price.
I'll give you some supporters,
some labels, some renown.
What do you value? Name your price.
I'd give you my soul for yours.

from bouts of false reality
to this state of new normalcy
were seconds in between,
but it gave you something else to be,
made you happy (finally),
it dried your tears and eased your sleep.
i think it's called maturity.

forget the doctrine of
loving,
leaving, and
losing.

but enjoy the triviality
hold fast the spontaneity
you're granted, free.
this is the realest peace
you'll feel,
this fleeting serenity.

this normalcy unique to you
will rest upon the others, soon.
they'll fall in line and follow suit
in time.

the ****** dispenser at the mall
that now dispenses
children's toys