All We’ll Have Left
sleeping over at my mom’s
apartment, on her couch,
making sure she gets through
the night ok after her 4th round
of chemo; we talked, watched
Seinfeld, & I read some poems
by John D. Robinson & tried to
not think about the sadness of
her situation: the cruelty that life
deals to so many unexpectedly,
& just be happy with the time
we spent together & recognize
that those are moments that need
to be remembered & cherished for
as long as possible, cause one day
the memories are all we’ll have left.
Hours of Chaos
days filled with:
anxiety,
depression,
self-doubt,
insecurity,
loneliness,
sadness,
arguments,
violence,
drugs, alcohol,
anger, hatred,
bitterness, rage,
disgust, panic,
terror, torture,
pain, death, disease,
love, lust, sex,
emptiness,
nothingness,
boredom, apathy,
envy, grief and guilt.
the days feel like
minutes trapped
inside the hours
of
chaos.
Feel Better
“Look at my pussy,
it’ll make you feel better”
she said, as she stood
in the shower, one leg in
tub, the other up on
the ledge, her hand
parting her lips as she
smiled: a few moments
earlier I had noticed a text
come through her phone
from her dealer, picked it up
and scrolled through the
message history: she assured
me it was her friend who
had used her phone to text
him about fucking and what
not, and that she would
never cheat on me: later
that night I found out she
was lying: I thought of her pussy
but it didn’t make me feel better.
Crying Game
I remember my sister saying:
‘David never cries, it’s so weird’
after our father’s funeral -
I stood there watching others
do just that:
her
my mother
my cousins
my aunt
his friends
and
strangers
who I didn’t know
or
recognize
as I fought back
my own
pushing those feelings
deep down
into my guts
hoping that’s where
they’d stay.
I’ve never felt comfortable
crying in front of other people
and even though I’ve done it before—
it’s a sight rarely seen.
It usually happens when I’m alone
and my insides spontaneously combust—
as I stand in the shower; a place I can’t feel my tears.
Luck’s Run Out
different people
different identities
men identifying
as women
women identifying
as men
the predator never
wants to identify as
the prey.
the prey sometimes
escapes with its life
and identifies as a
hero or a lucky bastard -
temporarily.
I’d like to identify as a
a happy human being -
which seems impossible.
they all have it easier than me;
but one day I will escape too,
permanently, like the prey
when its luck’s run out.
