Filed Under: Poetry
Passing East to West to East Side
We’re always East or West of Somewhere
Delineations, small bits and digits
to give us comfort.
I’m East.
I’m West.
I’m I. Comfort.
Here, I say, take this finger. It’s a digit, too.
No thanks, you say, it’s shriveled and smells funny.
That’s true, I say. But that means its precious. One day we’ll be shriveled and smell funny, too and they’ll put us in fancy boxes or jars. They’ll throw flowers on us and bury us like squirrels.
Arriving to my East – my beloved East Side.
Vertical Ghettos bleed into the horizon.
they fixed your liver but broke my heart equal switch in the eyes of science and my inner scars are deeper than your outer memories of pain I used to love you and still do but you killed me and us slowly as you healed and shrank and stopped watching me as I [...]
No one can tell you when to grieve Anymore than when to Love Both rush in without the asking Or creep upon you slowly with a dagger and a smile The blade slides in smooth long cold and slowly turns Giggle Moan Weep like a child Vanity sports
Whiskey. Willie. Your god damned hanging on. You look at empty spaces just as you look at me. Nothing. Then Someth … No. Nothing. Go on. Go. Please. For your loving wife. For your daughter. On the edge of a cliff. For you. Most of all. For you. To death, Father. To death. I love [...]