The thin leather strips

Surround my hand, protecting,

Are stronger when soft.

Father, ship me back to the heaven’s factory
I am not well made,
my alter ego is a creep in the dark
my shell need a bit of fixing
my soul leaks and a drought is a comin’

father Jean speaks of a great plan for every life
but how can i trust the words of a man who
softly cries alone in a confessional?
I see, feel no plan
My drunk father drove his way to the heavens, and
took with him a young teen who was standing on the crosswalk
“There is no heaven for alcoholics and
there is no haven for your mother”, my aunt tells me.
My mother used barbiturates to smuggle my six year old self to heaven
my heart stopped for a while but in the end
she went without me.

Father, I’m not looking for a quick refund
I’ve got no oil to keep grime and rust away
I’m running empty
so please
ship me up above
ship me back anew

delicious beer
on sale for only
eleven dollars

I’m
callow scum on the floor of the world
mellow bum on the parking lot

I have been
chewed and spit out
worn and thrown away

I was
someone’s precious child
yesterday’s bloom and shiny star

but I will never be again,
forever.

(why we should learn from our
fellow children and sick adults alike)

(and why taboo topics always smell
better)

though spoken of lowly
accomplishes two things it

works as a firearm smothering
even the most prepared parents
in agent ‘green’

stings the nostrils – cleans
even the esophagus on it’s way out

not to mention it keeps the vomit-or
spotless

today and yesterday sit still and smother tomorrow

you leave, yet breathe, creasing me with sorrow

slithers’ silence is soothing

(announcing too annoying)

it comes and calms, moving along, knowing that time spirals regardless.

people put eyeballs in the middle of
a hand – evil eye they say will get you

i’d be much more afraid of an evil
chainsaw or perhaps an axe of sorts

run i would from an evil sasquatch carrying
a crossbow and chewing some copenhagen

even a statue of him would strike a healthy
amount of fear into the naughtiest of small

children. but an eye of evil seems a
haunting tale made up by a child of

only five years. choose your fears wisely
because an eye in a hand is a problem if

the hand closes, or the eye itches or i take
my spear and stab the eyeball out of the hand

leaving it limping on the floor like something
dead from a sad movie about a family named

adams.

from a long line of mugs
came forth one who was willing
to create change.

out of a family of avid
crest users roger was nearly
excommunicated from his family
as he stepped foot on colgate campus

the people there were paste-y white
not a few with perfect dental
hygiene
the boathouse plaque yellow

a mugs who doesn’t like the dentist
a mugs with four crowns before 24
a mugs who still uses crest out
of family loyalty

i did not fit in at the
freshman dorms

crooked teeth and all

and the people
paste-y white.

and so did an old lady
hobbling on a bum knee
watering flowers

there is nothing as satisfying
as slowly awakening
on a freezing morning
wrapped in the warmth
of a full night’s rest
not wanting open eyes
because you know
nothing can compare
to this comfort

so sleep

whether it’s a quick
twenty minutes stolen
in the middle of the day
or an indulgent twelve
hours when you’ve nothing to do

sleep

from the lowliest
vagrant upon concrete and cardboard
to the king upon silken sheets,
we all just make it through the day so we can

sleep.

it is the answer to everything:

long day? sleep.
ate too much? sleep.
didn’t eat enough? sleep.
just got dumped? sleep.
lost the big game? sleep.
failed that test? sleep.
poor? sleep.
stupid? sleep.
in jail? sleep.
dead? sleep!

Oh, Kelly thinks he’s so god damn funny,

Especially since I have no money.

When he’s got the sheep and I’ve got the rams.

He tries to beat me in poetry slams,

Sixty second haiku’s when it’s sunny.

Cauterized flesh wounds,

Once crimson by impaling,

Ailed pristine troikas.

says the bumper sticker
which would be placed
between the license plate
and the trunk
if i owned a car

four wheels to call my own
in which to sit
roll up my sleeves
– down the windows
let the insects in
my hair
my car
my ride

happiness is burning a cat
would be the motto
on my four dollars per gallon
gas guzzler

and people,
they would think highly of
the person in that ride

and yield to my wheels
because lets face it
you don’t mess with someone
who finds happiness there.

in beautiful dander flaming slowly