hey god

hey god
i know it's been awhile (forever) but can
you lend me a hand.

i'm not asking
for much. i got a three two count
dad was just here, telling me he's
gonna yank me if i
can't get just one guy out.
so can you just reach down here
and throw me
one damn strike?

make it so fast that the ball
catches fire. make this a fucking comet.
make it straight as an arrow
but with a nasty break
right when this fucker thinks he got
served up a big fat meatball. make it
tie number fifteen in knots. make dad's jaw
hit the fucking floor.

that's all. just one
mean fucking
pitch. that's all
i need.

not remorse

I simply want to be the memory
triggered
(like a AK-47)
in her mind
when she sees
that photo
crumpled
at the edges
after five
or ten
or fifteen years
buried in a coal mine
of clothes
paper

the green of the grass and the
red of the towel
the kind of itchy one that her
parents hopefully wouldn't
mind getting dirty

the soft touch of her
hands
in mine
the warmth
of our pulsing bodies
joy
transparent love
but still some sort of
connection

maybe if I had come
just a little
later
but there would still
be the dark
tears of those words
the ones I repeated so
many times
the words that left
me
with the cold sweat
when I needed them most

I just want to be the memory
she looks back on with happiness
not remorse

A Summer Drive

2/8/15


The wind
howls,
And the tall grass dances
along.
The pavement is silent,
the smoke settling into
the waves of green.

Black lines crisscross the road,
where the green Outback, screeched and skidded
a flurry of bodies and metal.
The black treacle pavement is still warm.

The car now rests on it's roof
among the grass,
which is swaying side-to-side
like an inflatable tube man outside a Pep Boys.

Oil drips from the tail pipe like molasses,
and a squirrel pokes it's head through
a shattered window.
The sound of sirens in the distance
grows closer.