We poetsAs a young boy, I looked up.Up to this towering man that I wanted to be just like.With bulging muscles and an expansive vocabulary of macho-induced lingo such as:crescent wrench, car jack, oil filters, sinkers and bobbers, and Budlight.Keeping up was a fight.A fight to remember which a Phillips head was and which was the other.On more than one occasion, even bringing him an Allen wrench by mistake.I had to soak in the let down face of my father with every wrong tool that I brought.Each. And every.Damn. Time.I could not be taught.Was he taking this as a sign?My lack of interest in fishing and boxing.Eventually, to stop asking for my help in the garage and instead seeking out my younger brother.Always hearing of fishing stories where I had been uninvited.I didn’t miss the grease, but then again, I wasn’t in it for thatI helped him with childlike enthusiasm, because I loved the bonding.The bonding of father and son, not so much the bonding of metals by the weld
CandaceI have named the lumpin my throat Candace;and she is what her name means-penitent and contrite,remorseful for every word that slipspast her because they all havecome out misshapen and wrong.
Cleansing FireCleansing FireA manifesto of my angerI want to watch the world burnI want to watch buildings crumble.I want to see fire consume everything,to cleanse the filth from the surface.I want to see it leap into the sky,unthinking, unfeeling, but moving.Moving fast.Beyond anyone's wildest imagination.Devouring, eating, destroying.If someone strikes you, do you not strike back?If they spit in your eye, do you not retaliate in kind?For my entire life the world has struck me.Has spit in my eye.And now, I want to return it's harshness back unto it.I want to see the world burn.I am no madman.I am no destroyer.I am a creator.I want to create a surface of ash.Do I have my reasons?Of course I have my reasons.But I will not share them.Not now.This is not my treatise on the moral degredation of the world.This is not my "how to" guide to fixing everything that's wrong.This is the manifesto of my anger.Of my rage.Of my disgust.This is the spark that lights the torch that lets
lips sewn tightly shut.There are bruises under her eyesmore mottled than the dappled halo about her head;her mascara has become stickyfrom blinking blearily through nighttime wanderingsin inky darkness, a thin, wrought-iron underworldof hospital beds, cancerous towers oflove-tears, ghostly embraces:where skin sloughs away from bone,slick, black feathers prickle out of the back of thoraxesand the gap between one breath and the nextis measured in self-sacrifice --but murder has still left its taste (thick,heavy, heady) on her tongueand not even a caesura would be enoughto stop th-
Near DuskBaby stars on telephone wiresAnd the sky is smeared with God.