this 13 year-old kid in
his
front yard waving a gun
this idea of god
of men dying in prisons
and i will give you a
broken pencil and
a blurred map of
america and
what i want for you is
to find the point where
these things meet
what i want is for my
children to
never read anything
i've written
to never find out my
fears
and do you believe that
we are all parasites?
have you filled your
mouth
with your father's
ashes?
or maybe there is only
the empty fury of his
hands
the memories of
slamming doors
of engines revving
your younger self small
in the passenger seat
as the car takes the
turns at fifty miles
an hour on the wrong
side of the road
the person you've
become
watching from a second story
window
as the boy is thrown to
the ground
watching as his mother
walks away
none of us anything
that
could ever be called
beautiful
No comments:
Post a Comment