Monday, July 18, 2016



Dear Mother

Dear Mother,
I keep trying to put you away,
Deposit you in a safe deposit box that’ll never be opened again,
Drop you in a dumpster, grind you in the garbage disposal,
But you are a slippery ghost, one slick ghoul
You shimmy in and out of scene and you’re here now
The black in this ink, with whirls of blood stains
The things you taught me ought never be learned
How evil can leach through the simplest of things
A Cream of Wheat breakfast, a whimpering, beaten dog
Forgotten birthdays that were not actually forgotten
There’s more of course, and worse of course
But no one wants to have their day ambushed by that much darkness
I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it
But I wonder what you’re thinking right now
If any of it makes sense to you in hindsight
If there’s even the slightest sliver of guilt or shame
Seeping through the vapors of your wraith skull


Molotov Cocktails

At the riverbank the trout have slipped away to the other side of the shore
Or else they’ve eaten each other
My brothers are lighting Black Cats and tossing the firecrackers inside
Dad’s empty beer bottles, then chucking them into the stream
Molotov Cocktails for poor terrorists
Don’t be a pussy.  Grab one.
In the back pocket of my denim shorts is a Dark Shadows book
Quentin and the Crystal Coffin, a goofy read but a nice escape
When I sit down on a boulder a Black Cat gets flung my way
Exploding an inch from my ear, sound draining out of the world
Everything looking like I’m seeing it from underwater
My brothers apparently cackling, grabbing their sides as they titter
Saying something I can’t hear while all I can think is
I’m so glad that firecracker blew my eardrum out.  I really am so glad



The memories of you might
As well be tattooed across
My corneas
They run like boiling oil
In my bloodstream
Those early years
Of violence against
Children bearing your same
Last name
What am I supposed to
Do with your death
Knowing there was never absolution
Even now awake at
Such a late hour
I am still waiting
For the emancipation proclamation
That never comes


Independence Day

Another thing about fireworks is they can shred you
You get it thrown at your feet while you’re holding a lit one
And it’s BANG
BANG again
But that all makes for a good laugh
Even the size of your swollen fingers, the smear of gray
Gunpowder splattered across your wrist, that’s funny, too
What a hoot!
And then later that night and nights after that night
You think about Independence Day
Waiting for your chance to break free for good


No comments:

Post a Comment