At the end,
you will gather your life
and if you’re lucky
it will fill the room,
hold your hand and speak to you in
furred voice,
calling in the breeze to brush away the sorrows
from your brow.
Everything else of significance will fit in your palm,
tarnished and worn
the colors faded and softened with time.
They will take these treasures home
and they will bury you instead.
There are ghosts in every corner
Tapping holes into their faces with their
Broken fingernails
This is a place where when the stars come down
They change their course and keep
The sideways dark
Look out the light
Will make you blind
And the holes keep growing bigger
The skin around the edges chapped and raw
The mouths below grotesque with screaming
Never and regret
The hands of god are softly, sweetly
Masturbating to the sight.
Assume the position
It’s time for your daily 15 minutes of outrage
time for furrowed brows and fingertips to lips and scripted measures
of concern
your eyes so blacked by ignorance
you can’t see the gun in your hand.
Let us pray
for the victims
this sorrowful collection of
lone gunmen.
Why does this keep happening? Lord, someone make it stop.
And let he who is without sin
fire the first shot.
His hand on the back of my neck
makes everything
you are
irrelevant.
Such a lonely boy, sitting in the corner
pulling off the heads
from all your little dolls
twisting up their limbs like rubber bands,
angry that you never had
the strength you need to break them
Poking holes in fragile skin, stabbing orifices raw
They are headless spewing bile
from their bitter brains
Even bruised, decapitated
dead
you make them sick
and in the middle of the night,
while you lie dreaming in the dark,
fat chins suffocating
choking out your breath,
they will be stitched together, artificial hearts
and iron lungs to stay alive and they will visit you
and they will crawl inside
and make you
scream.
