2003

i recall a lot where there can be
no return – everyone’s an American
Idiot; where i am just young, bare in
accepting boyhood. i cling onto Mom
for the remainder of that life, fingers
tight, gripping with the lack of futures.

on page 5: my hands in my Father’s
back pocket, the gravity of a Nokia
and the engorged snake, inching.

am here in another hotter summer.
memory-like liquid crystals. I…

+1. is the roar of a television shutting down.
i recall a lot, wanting to see Green Day
live, and so did i, a mushroomed head.
i went to the barber’s exiting with a bowl tarnished by water.

i went to the barber with vertigo;
i never fell from my Mother’s bosom.
the nokia rings. i stop touching my Dad.

water is short like the snake like the being i stopped

Post-Construction #1

(for C.)

Sister – they built you in a fist
bundling pain, hometown, sneers, et etcetera,
before you woke in the empty rooms of body.
Grappling is what the fist does best: a state.
And the best that history does is break
into sticks. Here, is a stick for your hometown, halved.
There, is a recombination pattern in those stories:
deep within your hair ends the axioms
of loss, losing definition. Grasp
the space adjacent to your lulling body,
connecting the logic of past and future
which must slip, and grow away from your unclasped fingers.