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thinned from years
of smoke & drink
& now the stroke
my father died in
hospital shitting
the bed but not
his bed & isn’t
that just like him
marking territory
until the end

my mother
died before
she saw this
day a sixty-
sixth time,
the cancer
seeping into
her bones
she thought
only back-
aches &
her cells
eating away
her cells
too much,
too every-
where to
do more
than accept
the inevitable
& hospice
& then
my sister
watched her
thin &
two weeks
later when
my mother
left she
went quiet
in the night,
no rage
against the
dying light,
one moment
there & the
next round
gone, nurses
plying midnight
floors while
our old
friend death
waltzed in;
I like to
think her
father held
the door

they came down the street
to the wailing child & the
flashing lights, the hospital
shrugging the curb, a pile
of steel & cinders & dust
& the sky a ragged wound
beneath the screaming
jets & the mothers round
with agony & meanwhile
the madman in his bunker
shoves tin soldiers across
the table demanding the
map play by his rules

rip wires
radiate my
arrhythmic
analog heart

radio dials
click & turn
unnumbered
stations to
static bliss

the battle
lines are
drawn by
poor boys
& cosmonauts
lost in
transmission

a dead eye
gathers flies

from skeleton
pockets, sunflowers

bullets, bullets
sing a lullaby

after the dawn
bombs

after the bombs
snow

after the snow
silence

after the silence
shock

after the shock
blood

after the blood
defiance

I’ve tried
to escape
the past
too many
times & now
that bastard
drives a
’68 Charger
so watch
out son
he’s coming
up fast

standing on
one leg in
the middle
of traffic is
a good way
to test your
mortality
especially
if you also
need to pee

if you’ve read
this note then
you know the
rest so get
to it—what
the hell are
you waiting for?

I have taken
the road less
traveled & I’ve
got to tell you
it’s the exact
same damn road
as the busy one
except with fewer
assholes behind the
wheel & more billboards
& rest stops so make
sure to bring plenty
of cash for snacks

hey, the
last letter
of the
last word
of the
last sentence
of the
last paragraph
of the
last page
of the
last book
of the
last library
would like
to say
goodbye
but alas
the end
is nigh

like the fly
at the
window
does not
understand
free passage
is a gift &
not a given
we beat our
wings against
the other’s
words awaiting
atmospheric
change