Saturday, September 24, 2011

R.E.M. cds and library books
stacked 3 and 4 high and
mis-matched throw pillows;
honestly, sometimes life
is like that.

Dreams of my Father

you beat me to death with a baseball bat
outside on the cold pavement.
I braced my small body, curled inside myself
and waited, in my blood, to die.

this one, you told me with pale and patchy skin
that hell consumes.

you were dying in the shower slowly;
the water didn't stop assaulting your frail body -
we both cried.
mercy was waking up.

the fire was eating up the wood around our life,
windows were spitting glass outside and 
my eardrums burst to spite the noise.
the heat severed the power lines across the street,
electricity danced violently against the pavement
when I first knew your body was devoured.

this one is the one that lives.
there is no mercy.