.Her adjectives were littlemore than colorful trinkets that splashdark light, even on Sunday mornings therewas no rest for the wicked. My earsrejected the multi-colored grotesque barrageof hateful verbiage crammed in therewith every other simple sentence that you couldprobably see long stains left behindlike a fatal battle scar. Her mother was just as evil--I'm surprised my wife even made it to puberty. I supposeshe wanted a carbon copy just in case of an emergency,because she practiced clenching old mens' esophagus' with herice cold eyes; much, much colder than any sea on the moon;Tranquility must have been banned from her cartographers budget.Her words were like old moon rocks she'd hurl at passers bywith her catapult like tongue and even swifter *******. Always aiming at the frontal cortex. Her harsh textured words would kickand claw their way down ravaged ear canals like three ******* catsin an Italian gondola slowly floating down the over saturated streets.It usually irked me beyond comprehension when she would bring outthe sickly sweetened, over ripe verbal ammunition to pry and beg mefor more cigarette money. I'd give her the money with my favorite feined grin which bought me sacred time and to watch her walk away..

.Dear Geezus,    I am six years old and I need some help.My momma used to tell me that if I ever got intoa pickle that I could call on you and you would help me.Well, I think I'm in a real pickle.    Every time I get off the school bus after school,I walk into the house and I can never wake momma up,and she's always sweating real bad. I called 9-1-1 likethey told me to in school a long time ago last month. It didn't help.I always find her plastic tubes with pins in them and big rubber strapslaying on the coffee table.Sometimes when she wakes up she gets really, really mad at mefor no reason. I didn't do nothing wrong though.I am very scared Geezus!Can you pleeze help momma?I sure do miss her smiling.P.S. Can you take from me my pickle?Love,Zachary

I know the hole is there
i haven’t filled it
instead i step over it
(mercy to my past)
i can’t fill it
i won’t
it is who i am

But if i fill the hole
i must use the dirt
the dirt that was in the hole
(before it was a hole)
it’s next to the hole
and i could put it back
but it won’t be the same

To write about it
is to put the dirt back
it is your life
(it is all you know)
and it must be filled
it must be filled, right?
any way you can

Your life is in disarray
you didn’t ask for this
but you are still alive
(someone needs you)
we can’t speak our minds
unless it is art
dirt that becomes art

But must i fill the hole?
what would i accomplish
i would rather be myself
(what i have become)
so instead i speak
i’m not going to fall in
I’m not going to bury myself

I cannot deny myself
what path born to us remains?
instead it is my challenge
(to land on my feet)
i cannot live in my hole
but do not be sad for mefor
it is my light that has escaped