Niravam sounds to me a lot like Nirvana

Good one drug company.
And will someone please tell someone
how many of us have overdosed ourselves?

Overtaken pumping muscles,
traded for undertaking cold dirt.

I've got a panic disorder for you,
a little drowsiness,
a lot of depressiveness,
decreased this, decreased that,
and a touch of dry dizziness.

Wait, let Leo clean up his laboratory,
and we will mix his findings.
We'll mix his findings and end up dead.
This is the height of
healthy,
modern,
medicine.

15 minutes and 25 seconds will never be enough to explain ourselves

Cause we don't have a chance, us two,
but we have a million all the same.

Some of us were just tapped,
with the tip of his ungodly slate-black pencil.

And we are the ones left to fight winter,
tooth and fist. Ivory and clutch.

If i even think about laying on my arms,
they fall numb. Fall asleep.
Take off to Nod.
Hug the thought of comas.
Lay the dogsleep down.

You say your beard and your hair have been growing for 3 weeks

And here is why:
the millions of little orange capsules
you cloaked and swallowed,
the tons of times you said this
but the reality was that,
the lots of my care taking
you took for granted.

Believe me when I say:
I think of you sitting among
concrete, some metals, and the illest of men,
and my insides push so hard on my outsides
I wonder how much more this skin can take.

Your days in summary:
asleep by 8 awake by 3,
a balanced but small meal for a man,
reading for the second time,
scared for the first.
I still hope for the best, the greater grand for you.

Nine Months, Maybe Eleven Days, and No Good Words

I say you don't have to forgive the hoi polloi,

they may not know any better, but still.

That second question comes out their mouth,

comes out with so much ferment.

Does it make you want to break their glassy eyes with your fists?

I imagine you using your fingers, reaching through their backs,

commanding them by the spine, and extracting their skeletons.

I am sorry your chest will always be sore.

I know there is a remembering smell we're always trying to avoid.

and I mean it happens when you

walk by, ride past, drum through, or maybe amble beside,

a certain house, establishment, or car even.

Please don't stay stagnant. 

Cause I keep seeing this kid's face.

And still, my favorite part about you?

You called yourself a dad.

Stories About Skin Color; or If God Permits

Staple us together, please. 

And not just in my finger,

but at our hips, 

our teeth,

our eyelashes.

 

Because there were two minutes today when I wished I was

the bantam Mexican boy leaning against the antiqued brick,

hands in pockets. Here is my dual brain theory,

I wish I'd never met you.

Physical Paper and Liquid Peppermints

I bit the seedling (sunflower maybe)

Anyways it tasted like cigarettes.

Well. And I remembered Christmas for a minute.

Coldness, coffee, encasings of snow and blankets of family.

That's something a tart would wear,

that bullshit plaid always hanging around.

Mom said that red belt has a bad attitude.

I beg to differ. Then I differ all the same.

And trust this. I don't want anyone sitting next to me.

At least until next year.

Listen, It's Not Always This Bad...And

that politician confused the hell out of me.
But i was thinking how when we were seven,
your mom brought cupcakes,
and you cried the hardest of any seven year old
could. And you had every right to and now me too.
And my legs are sweating because its god damn hot outside.
July will always do that to you. And your mom didnt mean to get the cupcakes wrong.
She just did. And now i think your plot is at the back of all the others.
I say I think because my head exploded through the top of my nose,
and i only got so far as to buff my left thumb nail.
And i say yesterday was the worst.

Violent Men Are Best, Violent Women Even Better

Bloody my eye,
push my head through those glassen doors.

Or better still,
paint me the deepest black, the most blue.

With your elbow, then knee, then elbow again,
I'm askin' for it. Really, make some ink stains on this face. Or these feet.

They deserve it, certainly.
Bee-sting my top lip, then my bottom for good measure.

Break a rib,
grey my lungs,
rust-color some teeth.

I mean it when I say,
wreak some hell around these parts, boy.

Clara is, was, and will always be

Outliving her children.
In two years, her brood has dwindled. To her,
and to the 6, I mean 64-year-old child.

Nancy has ancedoted me on her childhood,
about pushing a kid into hot tar,
about stealing quarters from mom,
about being the one to mother, and do the afterwards work.

I know it is not a bunch of falsehood,
but it makes me wonder what Clara's done,
to piss the almighty off. Maybe just nothing.
Maybe Nancy was never supposed to be birthing babies.

I think things just got all jumbled up,
A whole mess of pinks and stuff.
One kid got the yellow cancer gene.
Oh no, wait, all the kids got that one.

Dead kids make life pretty messy,
hang in there Clara.
But I'm afraid you are,
you were,
and you will always be an orphaned mother.

Miss Nellie Helen Boroughs; or 1879-1961

Did you school them?
Or better yet, learn them?
Did you make them say a-men?
Did you give them the good news? Your gospel?
And ask for a million or nothing?

That's how us kids get jobs these days,
get free,
and get right.

We Are Only 11 Days In, and I Hate June

And Nena agreed.
It is just not the day for dads.
This, we were all sure of. And Michael would agree, if given the chance.

It's not like she forgot.
Her memories don’t have a fighting chance at 12.50 an hour.
Animal hair in the tinest of hands, red skin on the tinest of bodies.

An office built for crying.
A not-yet mother built for mothering.
These days I’ve been picturing unruly fires, raw skin, and a little thing called cancer creeping up the bones of a cabinet maker’s legs.

Never Say It Fails To Do "X"

Remember I courted your sweat.
Slept with lesser loams of methadone.
And no, I won't capitalize. I don't have that much respect for it.

Let's talk about half-lives.
And how I checked your pulse every morning at 8.
Every night at 5.

Occasionally, I think about the origin of dolophines.
And I want to kill Eli, Adolf, or that scientologist with the mouth.
But they are myths. So my anger honors that factory in St. Louis.

I spent 8 months screaming.
And I have the bloody stomach to prove it.
Really, opioids are not that funny.

Everyday I waited for you to die.
But, then my diagnotions never meant much to you.
It was more like, when I say crash, you crash.

And now I sit shirtless.
And I'm tired.
And those 3 years just plain hurt my feelings.