Abuse

I've become afraid
of the monster hiding behind closed doors.

Eyes like a void,
blank like death.

It doesn't know better,
hands where they don't belong

bruised lip quivers for forgiveness,
curling into a slick smile

rows of jagged teeth
the thrill of the hunt

The wolf and the sheep,
predator and prey, design-

playing the roles assigned.
Entitled monsters,

no means you know you want it
no isn't enough

not for the monster hiding
behind closed doors.

Anesthetic/Aesthetic

If I could be so eloquent,
to alleviate the swelling of words
festering like bacteria in my throat.
Like a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth
Jaws snapping, teeth gnashing.

Fever dreams,
I'm in the Garden of Eden
Slapping the apple from Eve's hand,
Rotten milk drips from her bosom
Adam clutches his side,
the serpent swallows its tail.

You say I'm beautiful the way
a tattoo is ugly as it heals.
Scabs obscuring some great art.
Scar tissue, fleshy and pink.
Dead skin falling
like snowflakes -
or ash,
depending on which
disaster you bring about.

Ointments and antibiotics do not do.
I'm prescribed free literature
sweaty pats on the back
the comfort of strangers.
Self-medicating, self-care malpractice.
Glossy brochures,
the bulge of pill bottles in my pockets.

Patchwork therapy keeps me together
with band-aids, duct tape,
bits of string collected through the years.
Help me by telling me everything
I want to hear.
Gold stars on my calendar for every
day I don't think of you.

If I could be so eloquent,
to alleviate the dumb thoughts
spreading like a rash over my brain.
The blisters so itchy and unsightly.
To say,
Doc, you gotta help me, Doc.
Find me a cure for this love,
whatever it was-
an infection.

Owosso Poem/The Jordan Sovis Fanclub

"It's like what Kurt Cobain said, man, 
'Weather changes moods.'" - Remy 

Those who romanticize small towns
never had their heartbroken by one.

Places where the brightest minds
all fall to darkness.

Where the flames of passions are
extinguished by the icy chill of indifference.

Where light isn't a strong enough disinfectant
to cleanse the legacy of bigotry-
from Confederate flags to the KKK.

I was born of this dysfunction.
The cracked streets and impoverished
blocks whose sidewalks I had traced
with my feet for years, as if trying to
etch my name into the city,
anything to leave my mark.

Naivete gave way to residual angst,
contempt that familiarity breeds.

Maybe it's the memories I hate,
making times past still feel so raw.
Maybe it's bitterness.
Maybe it's the dead friends.
the dying friends,
those rotting away because of a system
that has fucking failed them-
and a community that refuses to support them.

This isn't a rant,
this is a warning.

A love letter
Dear Owosso,

Your quiet intolerance
Your White Trash malevolence,
a toxicity that's hereditary
passing down an ignorance
that's resistant to medicine.

Where the artist will die,
malnourished unless they
find fertile soil. 

Where the art scene is more
of a cult than community.

Where the only poetry is found
in a pastor's sermon.

Owosso, you made me out
of what you couldn't provide.

Where boredom equals death.

Where I learned
to never look back.

Bending the Curved Edge

Intoxicated, again.
I like the way it makes me feel-

until it doesn't.

Another round, slurring the
curses of exes in the moist air,
dampening the mood, among friends
whose sobriety I find unsettling.

You understand,
until you don't.

Who I want to be is drowned
for glassy eyes, blurred lines,
and repressed cries that take
me on a treacherous drive.

I'd be sorry if I could
recount what was said.

I'd be sorry until I'm not.

I'd be sorry for poisoning
myself if I didn't like the
sound of empty bottles
and cans rolling off the table,
a graveyard for my composure
which I'll mourn until the next round-

always on me.

Questions For a Bootlicker

Will you sympathize with the fascists
when the boot is on your neck?

Will you lick the leather?

Will you cry out for your child
when its ripped from your arms?

Will you realize that labeling a human
illegal is the language of enabling fascism?

Will you hear the cries of
traumatized children in cages?

Will you lose the same sleep
as their mothers?

Will your blood boil as politicians
flash plastic smiles, passing laws
to drop bombs because death
is far more profitable than prosperity?

Will you be able to identify the enemy
when he appears on your T.V. screen?

Will you embrace your neighbor regardless of gender, color, or creed
when the blood reaches your streets?

Will you get up, stand up?
Can you be counted to join the fight?
Will you do what's right?

Simple Arithmetic

I think in fractions
with my half mind.

Though this math
tells me I will
never measure up
to the man you think
I am,
divide me neatly
so you can see
these jagged pieces
add up to someone
who will give you so
much more than the
sum of his parts.

love as sure as i + u = 2

Live From Detroit II

1969, The MC5 take arms and demand,
kick out the jams, motherfuckers!

Punk rock, the boot to the neck
of flower power's soul trippin hedonism.
Born in the wake of a culture
Manson brought to its knees.
Enter the Blank Generation.
Noisy dickhead, art trash.

Iggy Pop rolls in broken glass
slurring the chorus to I Wanna Be Your Dog

Primal nihilism,
never meant to mean anthing
so says the prophetic junkie.
I spent a season in hell
to offer Rimbaud a blowjob.
Poetry in the modern,
fleshy and raw. mumbled
over the hum of blown-tube
amplifiers and static blast
of cheap out of tune guitars.

Venus in Furs drones hypnotically
through Warhol's Factory.
Lou Reed scowls. 

Civil society left you
blue in the face
red on the wrist, fingerprints
where convention held tight.
You've met your heroes
gracefully slumped over a toilet
or the back booth of a nightclub.
Effigies of excess, strung up,
strung out, planted in the ground.
Little flowers sprouting from their arms.

From her pulpit, Patti Smith spits her sermon, 
Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine. 

All the dysfunctional children,
filthy and unclean, tracing
the grooves of old records
with calloused fingertips.
Aspiring to achieve expression
in its purest form.
Art and anger,
an alchemy divine,
rawness, what it means to be alive.

Black Xs, a badge of honor.
An American hardcore is born. 

It's funny how
everything works out.
You can break all the rules
while seeing the world in red
but get played all the same when
all they see is gray and green.

Even the most dangerous minds
wind up on T-shirts sometimes.

Cobain said,
Punk rock should mean freedom.
Freedom from co-opting movements,
perverting bands into brands,
statements into slogans,
riot girl to please sit down, girl.
Images sterilized,
flaw and fury wiped clean
placed neatly in a vacuum,
sacrificing potency for profits.

Cobain said,
Punk rock should mean freedom,
the freedom to say,
Fuck You.

Father's Day

Like any other day,
it's Father's Day,
like any other day.
Like a Monday,
a Tuesday,
Wedding bells
on a Thursday.
Fireflies in mason jars,
Saturday's weight
measured in moments
waiting for the sun,
like any other day.

Limpdick Lampshade Proposal

I have one fear in life:
Inevitably writing the same poem
over and over and over and over
with each piece reaching
the same. fucking. conclusion.

however
the feeling remains the same
expectations are raised
the crowd is now restless
they want something
something I can't provide
the show the intimacy the wow
for christ sake
let me have this
the infatuation with tragedy
condemnation of all those
just like me
but isn't it great
no one can invade my conscience
to me you're what and who
i want you to be
the saint the savior
the martyr the victim

I have one fear in life:
Inevitably writing the same poem
over and over and over and over
with each piece reaching
the same. fucking. conclusion.

Black Sheep

Who are you now?
I can't tell, it must be the change of face.
But how I remember this place,
when I felt free,
you were so radiant.

We laughed and drank in moonlight,
I held you by the pond.
At daybreak you broke away and smiled,
"Thanks, for nothing."

I smiled back and went on my way.

Last Poem

I'm trying in vain 

to erase you from

these pages, but to

my chagrin you've

etched yourself in. 

Invest in my flesh.

You've left your mark

again and again, 

scarring me in the same

way as if I never wanted

to heal in the first place.  

I hope you're satisfied

with the mess I've made.

When I sleep you're 

hanging over bad dreams,

begging to be followed

to the gallows.

I can't forget.

I can't forget. 

I can't forget,

no matter how little I've tried. 

I told you I loved you,

this is how I show it. 

It's been raining since you left.

She said, finally, it's over,

devouring me whole. 

I'm still reeling from digestion. 

Association

Lampshade inspiration
Cigarette ashes
Makeshift ashtrays

For the camels I shepherd

Swirling smoke

Awkward glances

Underage drinking

Vices

Self-deprication

The walk-off-come-find-me gag

Isolation

All habits I support

Hatred

Lamentation

Depression

Saturday Night

Some Shit About Professional Wrestling

If I wasn't a poet, I think
I'd be a professional wrestler.
Trading in pens and pencils for
baby oil and hammerlocks.
Putting poetry in motion before
half-empty bingo halls.
Passion before self-preservation.
Some grow out of it,
some grow into their tights.

Becoming masked men, generic luchadors,
heroes, villains, moral in-betweeners.
At the make or break mercy of sleazy,
leisure suit wearing, comb over having,
cigar-smoking promoters glad-handing
and short-changing the card's who's who
before they take stage to portray the
night's brutish pageantry.
An inarticulate violence,
pre-determined and practiced.

Spilled blood, false finishes,
technical excellence.
The rush when people react
to these theatrics!
Subverting the expectations of
an attentive audience.
Masturbating their emotions,
making them believe what you feel is real.

Then someday when I'm broken
and old, long after my last look
up at the lights, glory days in
the rear-view traveling down that
sudden road to irrelevance,
I'll wonder...
How will I be remembered?
Will I be remembered at all?

If I wasn't a poet I'd be a
professional wrestler.
Though I'd forego questions
about legacy to chase the insatiable-
satisfaction...the one win I can't pin down.

The Bad Genes

I often wonder why you can't
bear to hear Cat's in the Cradle.
Is it in the way you relate?
You know, little boy blue,
the man on the moon?
When ya comin dad I -
Forget it.

I remember sounds of snapping
branches, the way an apple falls.
I remember the first bite of
bitter fruit, the taste of hate
searing my tongue, blistering my
lips, lighting a fire in my belly
that still burns. I'd rip you out
if you weren't so rooted.

I remember September 28th.
His birthday was the next day.
I remember feeling alone on mine.
I remember thinking strength was
not letting mom see me cry.
I remember wishing myself away
as we stood in silence, silence
that's since become so familiar.

I remember the last time you left.
Fractured frames littered the floor
of a half-empty home.
I remember blood blotting out the
faces of a father and son, my last
photographs of fatherhood
buried under broken glass.

Now I remember why you're
not welcome in my world.
13 years you've been asbsent
from these pages, strange parallels.
I suppose I should thank you for
reminding me why I write.
Though it took another look
at which way the apple rolls,
I now know,
you don't belong in my poems.