Pour another. It's still early.

I'm going to stab through a rainbow

Stand under the black black rain

I'm going to shake my fist towards the sky

When I know I'm to blame

Put the car in neutral

To match a similar life

Where blades of grass see their maker

And we stare at wrists in hopes that time

Will make it all better

Will make this sweater

Transparent

So I can finally see three hands telling me

That it will be okay

As long as the crops get watered

Drawn Out

I draw self-portraits with a ruler. In frames with blood-stains, it's ominously honest. These days the conversations taste like morning sickness vomit. Make-shift bull-shit of wit makes up for most of it. The desire to spill my guts is heavy, but the confessions won't let me mention their secrets. So I swat at flies as I caress the emptiness of a hallowed out chest. And I ask myself as If I care: Was there ever anything there or has this body always been so bare? Slow-motion Sundays hum in a familiar tone. My sheets are still dirty, yet my bed is tired and alone. Airplanes shake my dreams awake. Adorn me with cold sweat and headaches. If I said I knew what I was doing, I'm not sure what I meant. If only it were easier. If only I had a clue. Even with a compass, I couldn't draw you.

Meet me in the mourning.

Tonguing a hole in my molar, I dropped change into the metal slot.
I nodded my head, shuffled past the old folks, and picked a fitting spot.
My breath on the cold bus window grew a circle of unflossed distortion.
As we jerked forward, my hope scoured for the warmth of the rising sun.
And there she was, her gray hair matching the mood.
I looked at the seat next to me, hoping she would too.

Her hips popped as she lowered herself by my breath.
She said, "By god, son. You look like you know regret."
The past years legibly on my face, I decided not to lie for once.
Guarded, yet honest, my lips spoke to their slim audience:
"You might be right about that, dear, but I'll tell you where you're wrong;
Life is something to detest at best and should never be lived so long."

Her thought process, not what it was in her youth,
Gave me a stare, blanketing me with the heat of truth.
But when the over-sized coffin on wheels hit a dip,
What broke in that old lady was more than her fragile hips.
Several people watched and some even laughed.
As brittle hair fell into my lap with her head attached.

It was a sight to see, especially so early in the morning.
Of course, bodies are fickle things and can fall apart without warning.
Fingering her face, my digits sunk into her dry and sticky sockets.
Joining my remaining change, I shoved her wrinkled face into my waiting pocket.
The sun crept up, as if to tell us that we hadn't missed it.
With a pull of the cord, a red sign blinked NEXT STOP REQUESTED.

The doors flung open and I let myself out.
I said, "Keep going, but I know a better route."

For: Boo Boo, Seymour, Holden, Theodore, the Dufarges and more.

Just for tonight, listen as I write.
And know wet words on screens cause fires.
Typed by bony hands that beg to understand
how someone so low can dream of somewhere higher.
Think of a wish, be it flying with the fish,
or finally making a speech in a public setting.
It won't come true. At least not for you.
So, son, pack your things and start regretting.
Write a last good-bye, wet a couple eyes,
we say, "be safe" but really mean, "stay away"
Catch the next car, near by ain't far,
at least, not enough for the likes of you.
Polka-dotted handkerchiefs and baked beans on chapped lips
are in fictitious bits for children's books and cartoons.
While life on the tracks, halos are black
clouds that rain on a sunny day in the afternoon.
But every mile is worth it. Every other stop, a sure fit
like the sleeve of a man trying on a new town.
With newer shoes, and older news,
you could fit in with those highs now, not the downs.
And there's the dream and goal for the youth getting old.
Convinced a new home can drown out the old cracked wood
of your childhood tree-house or father with a new spouse.
Anywhere you go, ain't going to be no good.
But every mile is worth it. Every other stop, a sure fit
like the sleeve of a man trying on a new life.
But each suit that suits the likes of you
won't have big enough pockets for your switchblade knife.
So put it down.

Sniffle.

"Your eyes are sparkling." He repeated.
He always said that when he knew I was lying.
"Did you just eat your booger?" He asked again.
"No."
"Your eyes are sparkling." He repeated. For the last time.
This time it is was a little more serious of a question than mucus consumption, though. My heart rattled in it's cage, fluids boiled as i nervously placed my thumbs under my index and birdy fingers and on top of my ring fingers. Tears bubbled because they genuinely believed that the eyes that held them were sparkling like blinking neon lights. As if i were staring up on the fourth of July or standing on the Vegas strip, the whites of my eyes gave off the truth. This towering figure had seen right through me and it would be foolish of me to not just tell him what he already knows:
"Yes. I did do it." My shaky lips spoke. "I'm sorry."
"So you lied to me? You fucking lied to me?" He stood. "Do you know how disgusting it is when your own child thinks you're a fool?" He pointed a rolled up magazine as I stepped back knowing he wouldn't hit with the magazine.
Often times I imagined fighting back. Fantasized about shoving my pencil in his neck, only to break it off and force the rest anywhere else in his body.
"I'm not your fucking son!" my voice came out louder and more high pitched than I had intended.
And that's when it happened.
I watched him sway, as if in slow motion. He blinked slowly as his mouth attempted to pathetically gasp for air. I reached out for him as he began to stagger back. It took a second of thought to make a movement, but quickly guilt leaped me toward him. His finger tips grazed mine as I watched him fall backwards into his liquor cabinet, which was always well stocked. He dramatically grabbed his chest with his left hand and threw his right out, as if to grab anything to stable him. With a crash, I felt my feet move faster than my initial lunge. Propelled by the broken bottles of hooch, I slid towards my father's sprawled body. The Seagrams 7, the Bowmore Legend, the Speyburn, the 16 year old Lagavulin Single Malt that my uncle James gave him for his birthday, all gave way to the slip that would change my life.
And then there was crying. I couldn't believe a man so despicable could cause so many people to cry. Myself included. At his funeral, my sparkling eyes insisted on pouring out tear after tear every time I heard my mother make a noise. I could faintly hear her over the preacher's sermon and my own wet panting, but each time I caught her sniffle, I cried. I felt sick inside and I cried.
And this crying went on for years. I had to be home schooled for most of highschool because of this: Each time a classmate would get a cold, I'd burst into tears at the mere sound of a nose retrieving snot. Teachers thought of me as an emotional nutcase and a distraction and recommended home school. My mother, a loyal servant to my now deceased father, not having anything else to do in life after his death, became my teacher.
I think we tried actually having class once. It was a very pathetic attempt at that. My mother pulled out one of the books she had ordered on Mathematics, looked at it and said, "I'm going to need another drink if I'm going to get through Algebra."
She poured me one too. From then on I studied only how to destroy my liver. We'd wake up early, take turns puking, telling the other to drink some water or throwing a couple Ibuprofen their way. The spirit of the lost man lived on in each hangover until one day at the liquor store when I heard an old man sneeze and then sniffle. Nothing happened! For the first time since my father's death, I didn't cry at the sound of a sniffle! This was it!
"Do that again!" I yelled from the opposite end of the refrigerators.
The man looked, but gave no response, just continued to open the cooler. I ran the 14 or so feet to him as he pulled out a silver and green can of Fresca. "Do that again. Please, sir." I tried to sound calm, but after yelling and hopping down the isle, my voice did not comply.The man looked at me with disgust, possibly due to the bags under my eyes and booze on my breath, and turned away. "Please, just sniffle once!" I implored again.
"Get the fuck away from me creep!" The man said as he threw a couple coins at the clerk and exited with his grapefruit soda. I followed suit out the door and sprinted down the road to the nearest bus stop. There, social miscreants of all kinds gathered to get to their equally odd destinations. Germs passed from seat to handrail to stop indicator from passengers going to the clinic or crack house and I was certain there would be at least one person there sick enough to give me a sniffle. Luckily, the bus was approaching as I arrived at the stop because there was only one person waiting at the stop and she looked healthy anyhow. Shaking off the little sprinkle the afternoon storm dropped, I reached into my bulging pocket to separate change from ripped receipts and bottle caps. I threw my fair towards the driver and nodded with a smirk.
Sitting down, I smiled, thinking I could once again join society without making a fool out of myself around anyone who has allergies. I rubbed the top of the seat in front of me in anticipation as we approached the next stop. In my heart I knew it was just a short amount of time before a single sniffle would change the way I lived for the past four years. I pictured myself stronger. With chest hair covering pectorals. A man for once. Dry eyed and in the height of maturation. I pictured myself to be someone that could go a day outside without humiliation. Without being called a "baby" or a "pussy." As someone a girl could like. Someone people turned or talked to. Someone to call a "good friend." Someone who left the house during flu season.
"AH-CHOO!" spit an old Chinese lady two seat ahead of me. I looked up in excitement waiting for that sniffle to inevitably follow and did it! I could hear her nostrils flare, see her body hop up with the inhale. I watched her tilt her head back slightly and I felt a familiar feeling of heaviness in my lashes. I turned to the stranger rubbing elbows with me and he said:
"Your eyes are sparkling."

If it wrote.

Time-traveling within the solar plexus of a feral cat,
I lost my way
Which would explain why I'm here

Where the men pretend to bend where they don't
And the ladies are stiffer than the drinks
Where the headaches don't stop for months
And the months are gaining weeks

The garbage truck alarm clock
And the stab wound attire
Admire twelve course top ramen dishes
And speaking of riches:

I'd bend light if I had a gym pass
To get me back to the time I lived
Can you spare a few?

Time-traveling within the solar plexus of a feral cat,
I lost my lunch
Which would explain why I haven't eaten for days
Unless you count the swigs of hooch
That knocked the plaque off my teeth

I'm sorry, I don't bend that way
I'll be kind for now to nod my head
But I've got to get back to being a hermit
Keep telling your story, I just have to step out
Really
Keep going
Someone will come along and listen

days seemed to be the same
in an overall okay
but one particular morning
my troubles would bloom
in spring-time cocoons
as wings crept out of wombs
the yellow and orange blossoms
would leave my insides rotten
with beautiful pictures
of flying rorschach tests
it was love at first flight
fluttering in my eyes
were the sights that set
my insides aflame with affection

spring and summer were fine
but autumn brought cold nights
and oh, those lonesome sad winters
left alone for months on end
no love, no flight, no friends
and yes, i have tried
to pluck moths from the light
and change their wings
to be more familiar things
but the paint weighs them down
so they never leave the ground
and oh, those lonesome, sad winters
where i wait for the caterpillars