You can call me daddy
and I’ll whisper my saliva into your ears,
calling you my angel while hands
move across boundaries.
Sundays During High School Timeline
Stood up in church to yell at the priest. Told him that the words slimming out were too large for his mouth. Sentences he constructed from misused verses had gotten all the pews soaking wet. I’m tired of sitting in wet pews next to my mom. And all these old ladies who feed off of the pointy tits of this priest who calls for neighborly love. Doesn’t he know he’s fucking us all in the ass with his cross-shaped penis? That’s not the neighborly love he needs to be giving.
I Have No Pets
Inside broken doors, cats with no ears walk. They stop, two decaying felines, starring at the holes that were used to hold ears. One sniffs, other walks out a broken door and into a grown woman’s fat sacks. To find milk for her earless kittens.
I’m on a stair, sitting in a singular chair. Watching earless cats mate inside fat women’s sacks. But I’m thinking about dogs with no genitals.
A friend speaks seductively about tiny crabs covered in oil.
Slick, stinky black oil. Oil that covers entirety of crabs.
It’s an oil spill, says a friend, of the vagina.
Little boys come to open window
with their tongues dripping between broken teeth.
They ask for just a little taste
of something sweet. They need it in their
boyish mouths.
So just pretend they’re little girls
and give them your sweetness
I have a thumb pressed down my throat.
And it tastes like rancid piss and mother’s nightmare.
But don’t stop; keep choking until tears run down both our faces.
Stop to say that I’m sorry for
calling you a cunt. And a bitch.
When I get upset, I push
nasty words out.
You’re not a cunt. Or a bitch.
I’m just an angry boy.
Sorry.
My dad told stories about shooting
cardinals and blue jays in youth.
His dad would whip him whenever
he brought home dead birds.
And my dad’s eyes looked at me
with no empathy for my own
love for dead birds.
I killed a deer in my dad’s woods.
Not for food, just to see the impact
of bullet and bone.
Instantly,
I became a monster.
And I forgot how to pretend sanity.
Please don’t bleed out on my bed.
Just keep counting tiles on ceiling to distract.
I’ll hold your hand and cover blood
with white wool blankets.
But your self-inflicted wound needs more than coverage.
Let go of this hand for just now.
We’ll watch starry nights outrun rising sun
And count the times when birds stop to sing
In these woods, we are forgotten observers
Who drip out of quiet rivers
Lost birds dig underground searching for nests
Chirping for fresh air, birds only find tree roots
And earthworms question their own flightless existence
Got no neighbors
Don’t need to talk
Just listen for moving hearts
Don’t want to slit any throats on sacrificial burial grounds
So I hum a chant with closed eyes and empty hands
Feet pass all vacant graves as cemetery fades
Fingers blackened from decaying frost
Bones within begin to crumble from movement
Melt all ice to uncover bones bronzed from frost