Sunday, October 21, 2012



Fingertips on the keys typing heartfelt stories

For the woman whose heart fell too many stories

Here I am at your funeral wearing what I wore on our first date

The whole town is here

I showed up drunk smelling of beer

Everyone is wearing black

and my eyes did as well

the eye shadow of fists

temporary imprints

with a slight hint of blue

I know who killed you
and they said I’m next

my fate is in Florida
flooded with fantasy
forever fighting the fever
the feeling of your warmth
I’m basking in your eyes

I’m not an American
Nor do I fight for this country
I fight for Florida
And so the sun may shine
As I set sail for France
Where vineyards await
And grapes to be ate
Sing hymns for the traveler
And may his way be paved
Without him knowing

This poetry is atrocious and timely it is
I carve my name as this is written in the stone
of plastic clocks timing this sequence of words
spewed from the lips and tongue of a navy sailor
whose mouth is filled with vulgarisms
yet a body incompatible with its own speech

a baseball bat to the head
is what I said when asked
how I felt or a belt to the chin
forever marking my skin
Immortal through these words
I need no next of kin

You made it
and here we are

shun their teachings
and run wild in the margins
you didn’t have to die


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