Iran

I used to lie on sunbaked roofs
And cry with yearning
And play music that
begged for rain.
Once I(return from my flirtation with purity and insanity)feel the rain again, I frantically inhale cigarettes
And weep openly for the desert.

Rain:

Tonight, I could go
Outside with my plastic cup
And fill it with rain

My heart cracks open
Like an egg when rain falls
Only, I hate eggs.

Tiny drizzles greet my upturned face
And I send a nod for this gesture
Until I realize God is crying.

A Limerick (In Spirit)

Natural Selection

On a blistering frying summer day
Mrs. Adam rode her own crimson wave

But thought she’d sneak in for a quick dip
Not even the pool would notice the trip

Down to the marble bottom she dove
As chlorine flecks like fish would float

Only when she came up and rubbed her eyes
Did she look around and realize…

The sun wasn’t only turning her skin red-
She saw her own blood tsunami up ahead

And from embarrassment did she drop dead!

Published En Memoriam; Written on The Front Lines.

Christian’s Snores:

Sometimes, as you sleep
Your breath punishes the air
Whipping what feeds you

Other nights, sweet boy
Breaths languish up from your chest
Air falls like feathers.

Sleep (or lack thereof):
Can’t you see you’re killing him?
Please, stay close awhile

Sometimes I think that
He’s been drunk for so long
Happy makes no sense

If only he knew
He’s an opportunity
to write about grief

He should be more than
A muse to a woman-child
Writing about men.

P.D.E., My Favorite Junky.

Maybe your hide your heart (you hide the best you can).

But I know
How your rough hands belong to squarely
Solidly delicate wrists
How you tremble in your sleep
How your eyes (those broken beer bottle green eyes)
Widen
How you smile with tiny tic-tac teeth
How you fear ghosts and your old life
(skid row demons still haunt you)
How thick ropes of veins twist along your arms
(an intricate maze you followed with a needle)
that you miss your baby brother and miss
being a child
that you grew up too fast
yet you tote the heart of a small scared boy
how you rarely eat
yet when you do, it is consumed slowly bit by bit
yet when you pass flowers, you stuff pedals in your mouth
How you entertain an endless procession of regrets and remorse
On the cracked cinema screen in your mind
How your face stays blank in meetings
Yet internally you are in crashing ripping uproar
How you judge your insides by the world’s outsides
And find yourself lacking- and all of us, too
How your writing is angular and jagged
(a most awkward print)
And how you observe the world, green eyes
Taking constant notes and calculations
How your world is scary wonderful fantasy all your own
How you love new socks and too-big shoes and showers and cleanliness
You like things clean. All things but you.
How you lived on the streets among the
Broken and painful and desperate
And dying
And dead.
And you never felt more at home.
What your voice sounds like, how you don’t mind
What Dylan sounds like upon your lips
How you speak Spanish and look like without clothes and with your eyes closed and mouth open
How you work hours on your feet, go home to blank walls and late nights,
Then go home to that insane asylum,
And never think of me.