My Father and the Reaper

poetry

Part I: My father shot me, bang bang

I was created a girl, you see, and
wantin’ to be genderless was my sin,
“My daughter, I’m send you back to your maker.
Only he can make you whole for you’re unnatural.”
Steadfast was his resolve as he pointed the gun at me,
I didn’t wish to be a boy, you see,
but he shot me before I could tell him;
I wanted to be genderless.

I was the garbage can
rolling empty on the side of the street
one shot through my wasted heart,
nothin’ but pungent darkness.

Tell my father, he fostered and killed an empty vessel.
Tell him,
Tell him,
Tell him, I had yet to be born.

My father is not an evil man, you see
he is a simple man with ordinary values
uprooting all he doesn’t understand.

I wanted grace
a heart, not bruised or calloused
a mind, pristine and free
and eyes, innocent and clear.

So that I could feel like it wasn’t too late,
So that the day I’d finally be born and alive, I could say :
I am not my mother
I am not my father
I am not a girl
I am not a boy
I am human

***
Part II: The Reaper

Dark
Dark
Father, it is so dark.

Ah, 17 years old…
life had the promise of a bebop dance at the neon lights.
I thought there would be more days
Days when I’d breathe stardust till the break of dawn,
Days when freedom would cost 10 cents a piece at the farmer’s market
Days when I would needn’t stop for the rain or wait for love.

Fly me away
Fly me away from my own mind
Father, it is so silent.

my beautiful mom took the night train,
she promised to come back,
when the night is beautiful again
when the passing wind needn’t flirt with the outside, with damaged stars,
and plastic bags that always float one step further.

The reaper came from the bullet
and into darkness it took me,
to the place of the unwanted children-
dark and desolated.

The fabric of life and death is too coarse against my soul,
it rubs the good stuff away,
and soon I will fade into darkness.

Wish me back
Have Mercy, Father
wish me back
alive and well
So I can finally rest in peace.

Somewhere to go

poetry

another
dawn came knocking out my window
lawn of my dreams vanished, and
the bed threw me down,
time to find somewhere to go

no one is to blame, it’s all my fault
if i seem lame, i’m in a vault
i could have made an effort
i could’ve found me a cohort
for a life less lonely

time to find somewhere to go

another
callow walk in the streets
i felt so low, so mellow
the asphalt threw me down,

where can I go from here?
i need somewhere to go.
and hide before another dawn
would you welcome me,
for a while?.

eh?

poetry

filled up but not what i’d call full
because i’m more a glass
partially empty
kind of guy
3 days
of 5
but
the rest
of the week
i tend to be slightly
more optomistic about
the things i see and feel and
all the places you go when i’m not
around to check into our dealings of sorts

1 Peter 3:15

poetry

tally up your sins
just press them against your hand and look
the places you’ve shot and killed
poured over in blood
washed them “clean” with words of
valor?

short by ten thousand, a million, more
thick snow could not cover the black
you’ve made
press them against your hand and feel
madness at your things gone right
and accident – nay

i knew exactly what it was i done

and exactly where i find my hope

I’m a better person than you because I’m voting for Obama

poetry

In the act,
in the midst
of congratulating myself
on being a humanitarian
on being a swell guy,
I realized I didn’t do
what I was so proud of;
I didn’t stop;
I didn’t help;
I didn’t lend a hand;
I left a man,
walking on the road
in the 107 degree heat
and made excuses to myself
saying: Iwasn’tgoingveryfar;
Iwasabouttostop;hemighthave
stunk;hemighthaverobbedme;it
mightn’thavebeensafe;whatifI
waslate;someoneelsewillhelp.

Accusing myself with my excuses,
I realized that just because
I am voting for Obama doesn’t
mean that I don’t still suck,
just like everybody else.