I want to acknowledge that the topics mentioned may be triggering. This is a content warning as the following information relates to a convicted pedophile and CSA.
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been,
and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
Have you ever written a poem that was just… WAY too personal for anyone else to read?
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused
in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
My hero turned out to be a monster,
it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves
and empty words spill—spill
like abandoned memories, recalled by my mother
like when my grandfather said
“I’m going to kill you” while counting money
with no thread of flowers
to plant your feet on, and into morning air
at a hotel room
remembering that’s what home felt like.
O I had bad dreams; I was wooded into the sand,
lady, I am dead from you all
Do not tell me what I was
to redraw that cold war face,
to see a woman of what I bleed
sometimes, I wish I were like that. don’t you.
how do you break off from yourself
do you ever think about it?
Father, I love you,
as the orange of the sunset fades to the ship’s berth,
to the fields of a cherry birdsong so darken like a lute,
your song purifies my broken soul
father, you are everything, my world, myself,
I love you.
Note: I think I wrote this around a year ago. It was a nice diversion from the tension of those early times, while still delving into it. This is a satirical piece, so just a forewarning since the pandemic impacts us all in different ways. I don’t take it lightly either as I have had distant family pass from it; back on point, I know this can be a sensitive topic so proceed with caution.
Through the smokestacks
there is the death of me
as I pass the hills.
as if I held her hand, full of regret. A weeping willow rejects me
breathing in my cigarettes,
death’s in the traveler
being left alone in Italy; from the garden,
all bodied, all that red and bleak
Neurochemical duress, the labor of my body
aglows, destitution in mental illness; a fragmented
waste of sperm
the jagged teeth of a leviathan smiling
across the nighttime line running low, above
the clouded blue-black ink of deepest sea
i only have sensibilities in
I had the same hope Sylvia Plath
did, at one point, in her journal—she didn’t want to die.
I didn’t want to know it
the white hot moon
and the fuchsia
blood-eating all man