We are haunted
by her absence.
dearest matriarchal keeper
nursing a mug of ginger tea
It hasn’t reached her lips yet.
the emotional watchmen
scribbling indecipherable letters
furiously editing their illegible paragraphs
Our home is haunted
by her absence
the sorceress of paper dolls and tag
occupies herself with braiding Miss Sherry’s hair
her back slightly bent, guarding her side of the room.
a growing boy of stone-cold expressions
grumbles in bed, throwing his tattered baseball
into the stilted air of his confined space, a suffocating chasm.
This town is haunted
by her absence.
Our rich blood
refuses to coagulate.
It will flood
your idyllic suburbia.
your chapped lips
ragged from your nervous licking
your sickly, sweaty sheen
far from discreet
Deal with it.
Our death throes
will instigate earthquakes.
Your vast, sprawling lots
are our beautiful gardens.
We decline your appeasement.
We wish not to be displaced.
Are you not my brother?
Am I not your son?
Are they not your daughters?
Are you not our parents?
Amidst our strangled weeping,
our hands are raised.
Our battered, stinking vessels
weather the frigid nightfall.
glaring at the gleaming, towering cliffs
we weren’t meant to…
though shall not covet
though shall not lust
muddied brown eyes
the shade of His fingers
painting sight onto the Blind Man
cloaked in sturdy sackcloth
your left sandal
hanging by tattered straps
no, Joseph wouldn’t approve of us at all
honor thy father
honor thy mother
you didn’t tell me
you had a martyr for a sibling
on a dusty limestone
overlooking your desolate homeland
tucking your ordinary coat into your abdomen
it wasn’t as flamboyant or brash
as that cherished gift from Father Jacob
I drink your grief the…
I dreamt I was straight
resigned to suburban probation
shackled to a Barcalounger
force-fed veggie burgers and cold brew.
I dreamt I was a painter
the universe, the grim crevices of This Nation
in my preference of chroma.
how ‘bout I turn this country
into the Queer, Non-binary Capital of the World?
I dreamt I was a vagabond
subsisting on greasy scraps and morning dew,
the choicest cuts of soil,
seeking shelter under a naked Arizona night sky.
I dreamt I was daring
a connoisseur of intense stares,
all their pale, bloodshot eyes.
I dreamt I…
from listening to too much Juliana Hatfield and Sonic Youth
not enough Weezer and Sheryl Crow
from painting with too much blood red and shit brown
not enough robin-egg blue and violet
shave your split-end hair
drape the clippings over a piss-stained armchair
scream shriek bellow seethe
recite the 23rd Amendment
retrace your steps
to the moment you started loathing everyone
from wolfing down too much jalapeno chips and cucumbers
not enough mixed greens or turmeric
from drinking too much lager and cheap bourbon
not enough milk and carrot juice
repaint the front door mauve shred the bank statements julienne…
Aspiring novelist and amateur poet and op-ed writer on gay/queer/GSM topics. CA —> MN —> ? Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.