
Upon growing older, we are
presented with the option of bettering ourselves, only by then we are so
overwrought with baggage that the burden seems impossible and immense. We reach a point of desiring a holy path, but
remain at a loss as to its course. The
attempt comes in repentance and resolution, but rarely extends past that
initial excitement. Rather, the fires
of longing are quickly squelched by reality, beaten down by the people we’ve
become. Apathy and long term depression
result, although faintly amid the ruin lies a pulse.
In the garden, where
you first saw the light,
you took your liberties,
and brought eternal night
to all the children
you would never have to see;
you sentenced us to rot in our
allotment of depravity.
Your blessing is meaningless
when all you left is
this horrendous mess;
and heritage means less to me
when I find mine is
blasphemy and sin,
pulling me in.
Anchors away;
you sail through the day
like a ship tossed around
by the wind.
Clouds hide the sun,
and you’re thrown, or you run;
feeling trapped under
fragments, you’re pinned.
Turbulent waters crash into
the bow with their wrath;
whirlpools making it hard
to continue your path.
Long for the fireside warmth;
you’re momentarily lost in the storm.
Down through the years,
the ocean of fears
fills itself with
delusions and lies.
So ends the wish,
like a half-eaten fish,
sinks down through
the water and dies.
Treading the waves just to
keep your head above the crest;
no one in range to hear you
cry out in distress.
Dream of the fireside warmth;
you’re momentarily lost in the storm.
Salt water seas, chilled by the breezes,
collide under dark shades of gray.
Earth spins around with a deafening sound,
throwing comets to children at play.
Blinded by flashes of light
from the gods up above,
the sea raises arms up to
strangle an overhead dove.
Reach for the fireside warmth;
you’re momentarily lost in the storm.
There are two natures inside me,
one that’s chained down and one quite free;
one moment I can be astonishingly happy,
the next I’ll be weighed down by utter misery.
There are two spirits, dually employed,
one that creates and one that destroys;
spirit one with hope to spare, spirit two devoid,
one of them a hardened man, and one small boy.
And I try to find the fine line,
but I cross it every time;
I seek to speak redemptive words,
but curses redefine.
There are two loves sharing my heart,
one of graffiti and one the finer arts,
one should be ending soon, one should kick-start,
one should be mended and one torn apart.
There are two characters inside,
one that I show and one I try to hide,
one tells the truth, while the other of them lies,
one I’ve accepted and one I deny.
And I try to find the fine line,
but I lost it all to crime;
on my knees and weakened,
just a beacon to the blind.
I walk in two worlds that never meet;
weary eyelids close like folding sheets.
In defeat, I must concede that I’ve been beaten
by my own fleet, from my nosebleed seats.
There are two editors I write for,
one guardian angel and one washed-up whore,
one of them a prison and the other one a door,
one has had enough now, one insists on more.
There are ideas in my mind,
conflicting thoughts of several designs;
some are all-seeing and some black as night,
some ever present and some out of sight.
And I try to find the fine line,
but I toss it like a dime,
reach to please the Trinity,
and breach the reasoned rhyme.
I’m trying to live for God,
and I’m dying to live for good,
and I’m striving to live by faith,
but it’s so hard.
Mother, I am feverish and cold
at the notion of growing so old.
Have I kicked apart the foothold,
been avalanched by mountains of snow?
Can you still wrap me in your throw?
Mother, I am going down again;
though from the shore you watch
me drown, you can’t jump in.
I have thrown myself below
sea level, choking on a whim; Mother,
you never taught me how to swim.
Mother, there’s a blade’s end
at my chest; did you really feel your
motherhood was blessed?
Words may go unpardoned now,
somehow devoid of rest; Mother,
do you feel it in your breast?
Mother, your corrections of my ways
have been haunting me
throughout my fruitless days.
I wish I’d given listen now to
stern rebukes and praise; Mother,
now what would you say?
Mother, there are warnings in your eyes;
I know you want to tell me what is wise.
But you refuse to interfere,
despite aquariums of tears;
“Good bye,” you cry, in one final reprise.
Lowering gently, descent from above,
fall from the heavens like targeted doves,
torn into pieces and ripped into shreds,
face down in the river and taken for dead,
adrift with the deadwood, away with the tide,
shot out of the air by the thorn in my side,
fading to darkness, warding off light,
straying from paths now obscured from sight,
crying out helplessly, curses and pleas,
sorrow infecting the cuts in my knees,
ghastly appearance, a wretched disgrace,
swollen glands haunting my miserable face,
frantically flailing and gasping for air,
swallowing gallons of scalding despair,
violently gagging on human remains,
spitting up mouthfuls of lament and pain,
slipping through fingers and failing the test,
striking the bottom and coming to rest.
Secrets—well, we all have regrets;
like nails across sharp slate,
bore pointed fingertips.
Friction—our affliction;
superstitious, mixed religious
fiction, false benediction.
End soon, this misfortune,
before life itself means nothing
else than weeping over you.
Forgive what has done me in;
I only kept those things, burnt
offerings you hated more than sin.
When the past catches up,
I hope I’m already long gone;
I don’t want to be around when
you decide you should move on.
The longer I stay, the further
I fall in jeopardy.
Stalemate, and a firm belief in fate;
all my undesirable traits
—I know you can’t relate.
Motionless, such a meaningless
request, petrified by fresh success,
a mesh of clouded interests.
When my promises catch up
to me and echo, torturous,
I hope my sudden flight won’t
startle you with too undue duress.
The longer I stay, the further
I fall in jeopardy.
When the flowers cover over me,
ten thorns to every stem,
and the petals, nettles, nestle,
beckon starling, crow, and wren;
then, my welcome outstayed,
I’ll wither and fade in jeopardy.
Your patience outweighed
my graciously jaded jeopardy.
I
Growing up was never easy,
but thanks to you it, it sure was fun.
I can’t imagine life without you;
it’d be like taking out the sun.
I remember all the good times
in all the places we called home,
like having wars with plastic figures
and pillow fights with bits of foam.
Brother, you’ve always known how much I care.
Brother, I’m glad I had you there.
Brother, I thank my precious Lord that you’re
my brother; I hope you were aware.
No one said you had to like me
or take the time to be my friend;
I guess I could have been a hassle,
a little bugger to defend.
I know sometimes I was tough to love,
that I was stubborn and a pest,
so I thank you for not killing me;
you tried your very, very best.
Brother, I always knew that you were there.
Brother, I don’t know why you cared.
Brother, I don’t know what to say to you,
my brother… but I’m scared.
II
Turn your head the other way now,
I don’t want you to see what I have become.
Close the door behind—it’s getting cold outside.
But it’s too late, I’ve met my fate;
my heart is cold, my soul is numb.
III
As I sort through all the memories
of the fights and of the games,
I am overcome and colored by
my deep regret and shame.
You have turned out stronger
than I ever hope to be;
I cannot look at you in the
same godly way you look at me.
Brother, don’t be disappointed in me,
but I am not the man I ever thought I’d be.
I’m very, awfully sorry, and it
makes me want to scream,
but you will always be brother to a black sheep.
The years could not make up
their minds what to do with us;
they led to very different lives—
I don’t deserve your trust.
Don’t feel the need to fend for me,
I’m not a child now;
eventually, you will agree with
all these shearing sounds.
Brother, don’t be disappointed, but it’s true;
the things I hate seem near the only ones I do.
I’m awfully sorry, and I cut myself with glee,
but you will always be brother to a black sheep.
You have always been a brother to a black sheep.
Cold sweeps the chill across your teeth,
like the wind through the wheat.
Your words mean nothing anymore;
I feel the draft beneath the door.
What’s coming over me?
What’s coming over me?
What’s coming over me?
Darker than sin rushes this depth;
I spiral down into your breath.
You lift your hand and turn away;
I grip your noose at the fray.
What’s coming over me?
What’s coming over me?
What’s coming over me?
In the morning, when you look to my
bloodshot eyes, through the blinking
and the shades, don’t be surprised;
you only see me under canopies of sun.
Don’t inquire as to last night’s fire in town,
don’t approach my emotional spiral down;
such taboo subjects are overdone.
You never hear me when
I’m screaming out at night;
forehead wet with insomnia,
crystallizing into fright.
You can’t know the thoughts that terrorize me,
harsher than your worst nightmares;
thumbtacks pinned to a police chief’s map.
At that, I wake up, gasping for air.
Another day lost, and time to retire;
excuse the smashed glass and the worn tire iron
—mixed emotions… time to go to sleep.
Mull over conversation and talk, get out of bed
twice to make sure the door is locked;
keep hearing stairs and floorboards creak.
You never heed me when
I’m freaking out and tight;
forehead wet with sweat, and
fretting, horrified by pitch’s bite.
You can’t know the thoughts that paralyze me,
these aren’t your common dreams;
afraid to sleep, awake for days,
recounting horrid themes.
A few too many drug induced novels;
grovel for the conjuring of medication bottles,
become the subject of a speculative hush.
Don’t ask for privileged information interviews,
you’ll hear reports on the ten o’clock news;
you’ll want to vomit at thoughts
that make me blush.
You’re never near me when
I’m creaming at the sight,
frothing at the corners of a
grin, at sinning—staged delight.
You can’t know the thoughts that petrify me,
straight from an asylum cell;
scrapes on the pavement guide me
to my own personal hell.
Fresh young spice on a
Friday night, pretty little face
so bashful, peach pit moan
with a beckoning sneer;
let your locks down the castle.
Princess, you’ll not
make it home tonight;
I have things in my mind
which you dare not fathom.
You will never see the day
the same way.
Sliding door through open
window, bedroom sanctuary,
walk in closet with
Venetian blinds,
drawn unripened berries.
Treasure, I’ll invade
your mysteries, pry into
the gateway of your knees, then
slip your bleeding lips around me.
Fresh blood screams,
“Please don’t do this!”
“God,” I think, “if only.”
Then a crack, a snap;
fresh blood gushes free.
Laundromat or the grocery store,
boyfriend at the jeweler,
foot in a nest
in an oak tree branch,
evening getting cooler.
Petite little cutie lets
a howl that shatters nerves,
day fades away with
an unprovoked shiver,
supple curves
slow motion and purr.
Fresh blood pleads,
“Don’t put me through this!”
“Dear, if it were only that pure.”
A sudden surge of rage,
a jolt of pain,
then nothing more.
Oh God! Oh God! May
the glass be sharp enough
to fix what I’ve done,
and may her tears fall from heaven
and cleanse this puddle of blood!
Half empty bottles
on a Chinese rug,
cats on broken rockers,
sleeping past noon
without calling in;
such is life for stalkers.
Puss, it wasn’t
anything you did;
I am living
consequences of my sins.
Now watch the years strangle you
with all you hate in me.
Fresh blood screeches,
“You can’t undo this!”
Now I see it all too clear;
fresh blood is the
focus of my fears.
Fresh blood screams,
“Please don’t do this!”
“Dear, it’s already done.”
A violent twist, sadistic kiss,
and fresh blood runs.
Mesmerized, hypnotized—
read between the lines
and go crazy;
beat the bride, come inside—
ungodly hour of night
of self abasing.
Mercury melting me,
move on to another crime;
choose a view, lose a few,
looking through a hundred eyes.
Posing for no one and
posing as someone;
JESUS CHRIST had
something I can’t find.
Sanctified, justified
—everything at one time,
but now I’m going crazy;
terrified, bleary eyed
—morally declined,
arriving in a base heat.
Lead laden muses haven,
avalanche and landslide;
fortunate, distortion fit,
abortion, rape, and suicide.
Closing to everyone,
opposing the only son;
JESUS CHRIST, my
friend, I’m going blind!
Clip my wings,
do violent things;
he always brings
me back somehow.
Slam headfirst
—my God, it hurts!
Savior, can you
save me now?
Mother dear, dearest Mother,
I don’t expect you to understand
how your boy could hurt another.
I have tried for so many years
to not turn out this way,
but Mother dear, it appears
your fears, Mother dear,
dear Mother, are known today.
Father, Father, sir,
I have bad news for you;
my name, the name you gave,
your name will soon be reviled.
I have done some awful,
some horrible, horrible things.
And some people you never met,
some family has been greatly defiled.
I’d protect you from the disgrace
this case will bring out in the courtrooms,
but the fact is, serial killers have mothers too.
Sister, dear Sister,
dear sister I never knew,
would anything have changed
if you’d explained that
your kind needs respect?
Would my path have been brighter
or am I truly an animal?
Sis, is there pity or compassion
outside this regret?
Brother, elder brother,
you will soon be outraged by my mistakes
and how I could be so heartless.
I have tried, with God as my witness,
not to become the shambles before you;
step over my open grave and just shove me in.
I’d take back all these things
I have hidden in places where darkness looms,
but the truth is, serial killers have mothers too.
I don’t deserve to live
—well, on that you and I agree;
but are you sure that it’s justice,
not jealousy causing you to persecute me?
There’s a family out there who
hates me for what I have done;
but that’s nothing to the self-loathing,
knowing that I was the one.
Everything they’ve been saying about me
is true; serial killers have mothers too.
I can see her face change as the waves of pain
shot through her once virgin frame,
and I still see the corpse,
all contorted and morbid and strange;
and it plagues me, a hideous apparition
—I’m going insane!
…oh, by the way,
what was her name?
I’m the vermin germ,
I’m the worm squirming dirt, I’m unglued;
and I’m sorry, but serial killers have mothers too.
What sort of mess am I in?
I confess, I’m distressed
by excess cardinal sins;
I guess I could best be
regressed while I’m pinned,
unless you’ve been dressed
up in bourbon and gin.
I don’t want excuses of genes
or abuses I’ve suffered before;
they won’t justify what I find
myself doing exceedingly more.
This subtle deterioration is
patiently waiting to kill;
divination and sheer speculation
bring nearer the day that it will.
You control your actions,
not the other way around;
you lose yourself,
not wanting to be found.
Into what sort of joke was I born?
I suppose it was chosen before I was formed;
choke on the hope of confusion and scorn,
and tighten the rope—without hope I’m adorned.
I don’t want excuses that razors
or nooses may promise to solve;
the redder the bleeding, the
darker the afterlife involved.
This growing depravity claims
there’s no way to be painlessly spared;
inane bouts of praying in vain say
the same as a world without care.
But you control reaction,
not the other way around;
you fuse yourself, not
wanting to be bound.
You bruise yourself, and
crumble to the ground.
Twelve fluid ounces of imported lager,
thin streams from what used to be a tea light.
Some rock star guitarist’s
warehouse clearance disc on spin,
awake tomorrow before tomorrow begins,
with the fan on, over a cool Christmas weekend,
leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…
leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a junkie.
Girl, no matter how feminine framed,
doesn’t laugh at the TV or
the roommate playing video games.
One beer, stale pizza from boxes on the floor,
or resting under coffee pots
with a fourth cup left unpoured,
a few holiday greeting cards
with nothing personal except a name,
a quick succession of Special Light
cherries on my favorite vest,
and four corners, and one gaping window,
and a list of six bad memories,
and a backpack of ATM and gas receipts
—doesn’t
add up. . .
leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…
leaves me feelin’ too much…
leaves me feelin’ nothing.
And tomorrow at two,
a photo shoot for promo fodder;
tonight my stomach is sick,
tomorrow morning I’ll want to die again;
I’ll take vitamins and Aspirin,
and force down torn off pesto bread,
and watch the sun dim these realities,
and teach myself to laugh again;
leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…
leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like life.
Now it appears I’m doomed
to despise my way of living,
to spend my days with you,
and yet confused by the misgiving;
your heart is so young, and my
emotions have grown so cold.
So now it seems that all my
dreams have been a sham,
and quite elusive,
I’ve stuck you in my joyless rut,
unfair—downright intrusive;
there’s no escape, it’s too late,
I throw my hands up
from your stranglehold.
And it will never change,
so just hold me ‘til I die;
there’s no answer to the whos,
whats, whens, wheres, and whys.
The little girl you were
lies in a gutter full of rain,
the bum who rules the slum you’re in
has caused you so much pain,
and there’s little indication
my inclinations will ever change.