3/31

The water is too hot, but i don't know that. I step in there routinely; shuffle quickly to get out from under the direct stream. I slip, bash my frontal bone, dig it deep through my dura mater and slicing my brain.

One night in DC, the Metro is teeming with life, but in a bad way. My brother has on his summer whites - (and this next part is hazy, but it goes something like) - accidentally bumping shoulders, shoving and shouting and then, he apologizes too late. Blood everywhere, pools of it. And he curls up. Dying alone. Me? Well, my throat bleeds, I pull out my hair and my chest explodes, shooting bits of sternum right through my heart. Dead, right then and there.

This one? Well, I'm walking alone. I get raped. Jeans ripped and shirt bloody with struggles. Passing, the months bring no relief, so I bring my own.

Brain tumor. Easy.

Metal from the car door divides my neck in two
or the semi-truck's chain snaps loose and flaps wildly through my window
or some punk-ass 16 year old doesn't stop at the stop sign and next thing you know, my teeth are crumbs and my veins (all of them) severed.

Random act of violence - the small bones in my face all smashed, rendering me unrecognizable. And chaos, void of details.
Dying that way, in a frenzy.

Always dying.

2/31: benediction

my mind has been mud from the beginning
and my veins, brittle wood.
i'm a molecular ballet with serious consequences;
chardonnay brings out the best in me.

i eat the northern salmon who swims hard.
(no one swims like he swims,
like the universe is to swim.)
i take his life between my teeth.

it makes sense.
i feel badly that he is me,
but, one day, my flesh will be food.
i won't complain.

my bones, empty of marrow, will break under the weight
of dirt.

i don't mind.

1/31

One more time revolving around that sun.
Besides everything, what’s just one more time?
Just wringing my hands about what to eat
and how to clean my ceiling fans
and what words to write in shitty poems
and where to sit my ragged bones.
This skin is getting worn;
spots of dried mustard and pores the size of pennies.

One more time revolving around the sun -
basically just means, less time.

I guess we’re lucky,
most species don’t have a heart beat past 20.

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.

small prayer: 8/15

let it always be the image of
one hundred cattle on
rolling hills;

let me talk about marriage
either to you
or to soil
or to humanity,
but let it be sincere.

quickie

i suppose life isn't defined
by my lines
and carbon curves.

what's next?