Preacher's Son

You spoke like a preacher,
Marble mouthed messenger
Of the rules of your domain.
You let your tongue slither words,
Voice deep, booming, bass thumping
Coursing through my chest, beating.
This was your weapon of choice - 
Each syllable a warning 
Of what was yet to come.
Your pulpit a collection of your vice,
Beer bottles, ***** jugs, remnants of snowfalls.

You are nothing more than 
A false idol,
And I will no longer cling
To your drunk speech
Or grovel at your feet.

Go crack your hammer hands
The ones that nailed my praise-song
Shut to my throat to make me meeker
But these hands were still free,
Free to write silence across your lips
And I hope these thoughts pierce you like darts,
Like spears of defiance.

This is no longer your church, 
And I no longer your son 
Worshipping the verbal lashings as Godly,
Laudable. No longer seeing bruises as adornments
Of unabashed, deep down spooky love.

You are
Just a bitter
Aftertaste
Swimming
On my tongue.

Meditations Over the George Washington Bridge
For Tyler Clementi

1.
I could hear the faintest of notes crying in the wind,
As if your fingers were still nimbly holding the bow,
Striking chords on your violin,
As my car rolled over the George Washington Bridge.
I think about how beautiful this is,
This feeling of suspension, how life is held
So taut on these wires, how simple it is to find
Weightlessness over all this water. My mind questions,

Did you second guess yourself? Did you know you
Were worthy of being held, cradled in more
Than just cool air and metal grates and wetness.
But I guess some higher being knew you better,
Than anyone did or could. Knew how those fingers could string
Harps and violins and heart strings, and you,
You were more than all of this, this wasteland
Where desires and kisses are taken for mockery,
And your love can be twisted against you
To make you feel light enough to float away into sleep.

2.
You flew that night. I could tell. Spread your arms like wings
Like a firebird descending into waves, looking to extinguish
Itself, and to take the world with it, to burn out the innate
Inhumanity of human beings. What they found floating
On those waves was a mere carcass, the shelling of your being,
You shed the unholiness of your skin off to alight yourself,
And blaze us with our ignorance.

They were too blind to see you flew that night, let yourself
Unravel into the sky, ripping through the darkness like a seraph,
Like some holy being, some light meant for a higher calling,
But I know what you did, I could see the shadow of you in the night
Gracefully floating. You, you are a testament to language spoken
And silenced, to the words stuck on tongues prying themselves
Through gritted teeth, you birthed meaning to the need for some sort of justice.

3.
You served your time well,
You messenger,
You,
You young,
Holy creature of God,
And I wonder as I pass over
Your take off spot,

How long you will string
Your notes over us
And how you would have fit
Into the Philharmonic
And looked walking up
For your degree

And how long your memory
Will haunt me
And how long your memory
Will stay a lesson learned
For us all.

The Morning After

I remembered your hands this morning,
The way you let your fingers run down my neck,
Self-conscious of their effect on me.
They would make their way down my spine,
My back curling to them, awakened.
Meld my flesh to your fingerprints.

I remembered the taste of your fingertips,
The dip of your palm, the folding effect
Of your skin - How it would pulsate against mine.
I know them and the roughness off your calloused,
Hard working hands. I loved the grazing of you,
The warmth of your skin.

You let your hands bloom in mine,
Opened up your fingers, spread your palm
To let me take hold of you, to memorize
The swirls and lines of you. I loved the sensation of you,
The aftershock of your devotion.

The sun creaked through the cracks
Of my blinds this morning and I remembered
You and your touch, your hands and
The creases I would lose myself in,
That I traced endlessly.

Adam Feeling
Variation on Adam Thinking

I feel a stitch at my side
A missing piece, a hollow part of me,
And there is a rumbling,
A movement,
A hushed gasping of your name
Slowly rising
Perching itself on my tongue.

I bring my hand close,
To hold the absence.

I speak of you inside me,
Too new to call,
So I come back to myself
Touch my side,
To search,
And find you kneeling there
Settled knowingly in the hollow.

Eve Calling
Variation on Eve Thinking

I hear him thinking
Trying to wrap his tongue
Around me
Searching deep
For me
Attempting to call
To me.

I’ll place this gift over him,
Crawl through the blades of grass
And breathe myself inside

So maybe then he will hear me
Call to him
From the missing piece
I own.
I’ll kiss my name onto his lips

And use my tongue to scribble
Language onto his.

Nostalgia (Part II)

Most of my days are heavy with thoughts of you.
Contemplating, pondering, ruminating;
Who tattooed your tongue with righteousness?
At what point in your life did you remember my name?
When did you stop snorting your past away?

I remember the temperaments of you,
The kicks, the snarls, the growls, the enunciations of your
*******'s.
I remember the folded sheets tucked under me
To protect me from you, dad,
The late nights of laying awake
Listening to you slur your words,
Your tongue rolling around curse words,
Tying planned intention to mumbling misconception.

God turned his back to you,
Turned a blind eye to the doings of you,
Left us here to our own devices,
And I wonder how it would feel to wrap my hands around you
Choke the ******* life from you,
Hug you, love you, hate you, and be done with you.
Most days I wonder where we will go,
Whether I can ever let me love you.