I was such a beautiful child,
With my shoulder lengths of
Sun bleached barley.

Smiled little pearl soldiers in
Line. Old glassesless ladies
Took me for
Girlchild.

But I grew twisted like an
Appletree around a
Graveyard path
Lightpost.

Teeth came out crooked.
Hair fell out at thirteen.
I was big for my age;
Grew other hair in places
I never knew I would.

My voice broke as if in
Sorrow over the child
Inside that had
Died. After that I spoke as if
Into a bucket.

Sometimes I catch my father
Gazing at me through a slight veil
Of grievance for that same
Child.

I would never dream
To blame him.

I'm as drunk as you were
The night you drove your Corolla into that street light
So excuse any spelling errors that might occur.

I should wait until I'm sober
But when I'm sober I won't have the courage to write this anymore.
I can't quite feel my hands across the keyboard.

So maybe this won't end up a poem.
And maybe you won't end up alive at the end.
But I leave azaleas on your grave on Wednesdays.

It's just like back in time, in 2009
Sometime in January, stoking the coals of a fireplace,
Playing Gears of War 2 and exploding a lambent Brumak.

I didn't know you were drunk then.
I had an alcoholic for a brother and didn't know.
And a father, and an uncle, and two grandparents.

It was in my blood
And growing up, I was scared,
Because you were proof of how bad I could've gotten.

You could've called me.

December 19th, 2018, you could've called me.
But you were cut off at one bar and drove to another,
And when they cut you off they drove you home.

I won't have the courage to finish this.

I'll save it when I'm as drunk as you were
When your Corolla took a lightpost out.
Seven thousand in property damage, at least.

I won't have the courage to finish this.

Like you didn't have the courage to finish the night.
Like you didn't have the courage to finish a life.
You couldn't even last a lifetime.

But I'm as drunk as you were.
December 19th, 2018.
Maybe you passed the torch onto me.

I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing anymore
Without you, things seem just a little bit dimmer.
And I pretend things are okay,
And I pretend things are okay.

I can't define pentameter.
You used to know what it meant.
You told me when my poems were ****** up.

I can't define pentameter
Your name was Trevor
I think I might be falling apart.

I wonder what was the last thing that went through your head
Other than the shattered glass of a windshield
I wonder what was the last thing that went through your head when you left.

I wonder what was the last thing the bartender thought
When he watched you get into your car.
I wonder what the last thing the paramedics thought when they declared you gone.

I remember back to 2009 and I wonder if you knew we beat Gears.
The next day, you asked me if I was ready to continue.
I don't think you knew.

So now here I am, five months later, drunk in the mirror,
Praying Mom doesn't wake up to find me,
Practicing slam poetry with my own reflection,

And I wonder what the last thing that went through your head was,
And I remember sirens, and cop cars, and ambulances, and you were almost home,
And I try to make up characters to take your place in stories.

I name the characters Austin, and Brian, and Joshua, and Mike.
I name them anything to help distance what I write about them to what you were.
But your name was Trevor. I remember your name.

I remember everything about you.
I remember you stumbling home at 2 AM
I remember you lighting cigarettes outside the house hoping I wouldn't see.

Your name was Trevor.
And no matter what I write into my stupid ******* stories at six in the morning
You're gone.

Your name was Trevor
And no matter how hard I try, squinting through drunken tears at six in the morning
You're gone.

Your name was Trevor
And no matter what happens
I'll miss you until I'm dead next to you.

And I know you're watching me from Heaven,
But I don't actually think you made it too Heaven.
I don't think you were quite the Saint I like to pretend.

Because your name was Trevor
And you died at 4:32 AM, December 19th, 2018,
Drunk as ****, headfirst into a street lamp.

And you were almost, almost, almost,
As drunk as I am tonight,
Playing back memories of you and I in 2009.

Your name was Trevor
I hope you made it to Heaven.
Your name was Trevor.

Two months ago my grandma's spirit
Started leaving her body
She hadn't passed yet but
She had no use for this realm anymore
I wondered where spirits go
And who would tell me I'm wonderful
And beautiful and perfect
Once she was gone

Two months ago my mother and I
Planted morning glories
On our old rusted lightpost
"They never grow for me," she said
"Every year I try and they just never latch on, never grow how they're supposed to"
She glanced at me as if she wasn't talking about flowers anymore
"If they bloom I will kiss you with joy"

Nearly always, I do not feel wonderful
Or beautiful or perfect
But as time passed and I questioned
Why we all try
Just to suffer and die
In your home, in your hell
After twenty, thirty, or eighty years
I realized that the vines had taken over the post, had overgrown the broken lightbulb
The twisted vines full of buds
Had reached over 7 feet

My grandma's hands could grow any flower on this planet
But she was not a flower
She was not delicate
She did not need to be coddled
She is the weeds that you yank out every weekend just to grow back
She is a mighty cactus in Arizona

She is the morning glories in my front lawn,
Living by the earth instead of it's seasons
She could have been a redwood
Or a rare plant, remotely in Tahiti
Protected, strong, beautiful
She is the morning glories on my front lawn to remind me
"So can you"

spectacle on a street corner
          maybe a ******* or two
                            couple looking for directions
            performer, musician, mime, cases for money
                                     the faint, flickering lightpost
                    on the street corner across the intersection
                                                  ca­sting shadows on their faces

spectacle on a street corner
           bustling busy
                           people searching for entertainment from shops
               came at the wrong time for a show
                                     the harsh sun, unrelenting
                    on the street corners of the intersection
                                                    ­daytime isn't nearly as telling of the
spectacle on a street corner

The views of the city are awake like a dream
The driver of the car is busy handling the steering
Passengers at the bus stop are uninterrupted
Reserved seats for female passengers are vacant
Accidents are inevitable at any time
Fingers on smartphones are now agile
People have forgotten humanity for the sake of technology
Most citizens are becoming mechanical
The brain is busy now with information on the small screen
The reins of love are now on ******* on the head
Turn around and show as you wish
A pair of eyes sinks in the middle of nowhere
That is the form of nature seen before the eyes
Seeing it today, the world looks on the small screen
Everyone will run towards perfection
Or they will swallow the imperfection
Basti is confined to the coral grass of Fakhibajhi
There are surprises waiting for surprises
Running like in the light of a lightpost
Or to burn flying insects
Creatures addicted to light
Always failing to defeat the mind
Wisdom can deceive others
The calculation of falling into one's own trap is not calculated
Marichika falls in love in the name of love
True love is out of reach
The fascination of the female body closes in the form of shadows
That seems to be enough to start a fire
Lover's love counts as love
Time understands his calculations to bring sixteen
When you look at it, the abundance of life is gone
Circumcision found all the desires of life
At the end of one another came and appeared
I don't want madness to end anymore.
The time of nomadism has been stuck
A parody called Clockwork
Tomorrow has not left the boundaries of time
He has become a passenger in the eternal journey.