So my father,
he goes into the store to buy his $10 a pack for cancer
while he still attempts to hide his addictions from my sister and I.
Now I don't think it would bother me oh so much
but his frugal attempts to sweep the dust under the rug is like using a mop instead of a broom...
We see the crumbs leading to your door from the cookie jar.
Yes, we all have flaws, but you,
you
weave shamefully through the under layers of darkness, devoid of any resemblance to a heavenly nature, you fall like a night creature weaseling through crooked creaky cement alleyways, your gremlin spirit set ablaze.

LIFE, I revel and roll within the taste of each second, I run the grain of life across my tongue until saliva fills the creases and far reached corners of my mouth. I tap my finger to my lips like a true virtuoso, a connoisseur of life. Life.

My father's addictions completely derail me,
not even so the notion itself, I mean yes, but his blatantly obvious ways of avoiding confrontation not only from us, but also from himself.
Like Pinocchio's nose, my fathers back gets hunched more and more, his breath quickens when we draw close.
Father you are not prey, in fact if there be a predator, it is you unto yourself. I can no longer help but to roll my eyes when you tell me for the fourth time in the day that you must take out the trash so as to have a smoke.
I am fed up, excuse me sir, the trash will still be there no matter how many times you take out the "trash" .
The only "thing" that won't be left after you're repeated offenses of the benign chore will be you're dignity because you are so naive and ignorant in the way you dodge truth. How can you live respectfully when you don't respect yourself? Nor do you value what you are spitting out to your own daughters.
I am addicted to life,
I breathe it in with passion,
I embrace the truth within me
and have an eagerness to expand my wisdom.
How come father you do something that you know is a betrayal to yourself? How come you hide away in that old bar, the one with the flashing(flickering) light on the outside, dingy worn out red leather(plastic)booths on the inside, the bar located in some musty  little hole in you're brain and a blind spot on you're heart.
You sit in the back in a lonesome booth slumped like some chump, stuck in a stump, you ooze and wheeze not even grasping for air, no fight left within, you are like mucus, a toad melting into the ground. Sinister and swindling in the greed of you're gut. Your ***** mopey yellow eyes and the shameful acceptance as you indulge in the baths of life's luxuries whilst you poison your body, trash what you hold dear and continue to block out that little annoying voice.
The voice with the cracks in it,
worn out from you're games, the voice that nags and pleads. The one that catches you before you order another round, take another smoke break, the one that pulls you, tantalizes you with it's simple sweet natural charm in hopes of distracting you from your self harming ways.
The voice that chimes in the second you raise your fist to punch me. The voice that is screaming at you when you lock eyes with mine and can see my fear.
Yeah that voice, the little punk one that returns even after the crime of your actions has been committed.
After the music stops and it's just you and the world.
but even then
I don't think you will hear it.
You're living on the edge of the pavement father.
No you wont hear that voice, not when you're twisted and contorted into the sideways way of things. You killed that voice long ago, when you wound yourself deeper and deeper like a clock in time,
when you twirled yourself into that little empty pub, with a quiet pool table, with no hope, a sanctum of greed.
Yes, you're guilty, yes it was you.
It was you who killed the voice inside of yourself.
You killed it when you traded
your dignity and your truth
for yet another
$10 dollar pack of
emptiness,
lies,
and forfiet.

she was a peregrine
& appeared to me
shimmering in the
primordial morning
between purgatory & hell
talons like a crucial valve-handle
carrying me outside the gaudy dream
my heart's vagrancy
the latent tendency i had
of putting chemicals into my body
despite the ugly consequences
one man's poison
another man's high

now sunlight fractures into spectra
wind blows thru century-old oaks
becomes tangled in my
******-length blond hair
as we march hand-in-hand thru
these narrow streets
the pinched labyrinth
the last dusk light
this swamp

she was a peregrine
the hungarian turul
genteel brown eyes watching me
howl at the midnight moon
& yip like a fox at the first dawn light
now she shares her own
breathy yelps with the pillow
like fumes of lavender
sprayed in a strand of oaks

i know for a fact she has claws
she swore she'd never use them to hurt me
but sometimes i let her anyway
i need to feel those
dead fingernails buried
in my living shoulder-blades
propelling me into a new kind of manhood
redeeming my weaknesses
weaseling into my shorts
pains & insecurities
melting like cloud's spit down the windowpane
lazy & safe on a warm sunday
morning wrapped together in the skin
of this gyrating palace

this is no longer casual desire:
joni mitchell sound-tracked
our first makeout sesh
as stars bloomed fat
behind a surly multitude of clouds
over a tar-colored lake
so if you think i'm ever letting her go
you're a *******

pants-on-fire

Its for the redemption of Man that I tarry still On this mortal plane.
Its because The lord has filled my mouth that I still Speak his words and sing his songs.
Songs of Love and Faith.
Songs of atonement and redemption.
Songs of hope and cheer
for his next coming!
Oh How Joyous the occasion will be! as I stand in judgement, Before my lord.
My face is smudged with the dirt of Righteous service.
My hands, are cracked and tired from Long days of hard work.
My body aches
and
My clothes are torn.
beside me are snakes in suits, with fancy words and tumults aimed at the purpose of weaseling their own way to Salvation.
But not me.
I offer the lord my best, my worst. My all.
I offer up my mortal service, and my Missionary experiences.
I offer up my pocket-full of Souls I've touched, and wait for judgement.
I can see the worry in the serpents eyes, the doubt and fear.
they're dressed perfectly, their hair is perfectly greased back
and their disposition is fancy to say the least.

Oh, ye fools who look heavenly for most part, but have no trace of it in  their hearts, for Life is not about the love you appear to show, or the lives you appear to bless.
Life is about giving everybody and everything
YOUR ALL.
ALL your Love and all your Glory.
And such is the Kingdom of God.
Made up of Men like me who are meek and humble. made up of the weary, and the lowly in heart. Real men who did Real work.
Men who served
Lovingly, Faithfully.