Amelia, Molly for Short

The world is yours
In the palm of your hand it lies

Your life
Once in mine
But, now
Only the story
Life’s greatest trophy
In this day in age one might

Upload it to YouTube
But, don’t
I warned you
Never mind
Amelia, Molly to mother
The every-other-weekend dad

Do what you want
Just don’t be a poet
Don’t know it
Don’t show it
Don’t rhyme
And remember

A daughter cannot glide

Off of my successes

Mostly because
They’re non-existent

Molly

It saddens me to say
But my only gift to you
Was rethinking abortion
Call it Christmas on the sixth of July
I was nineteen
Far from levelheaded
And if I’m an asshole
Fuck it
It’s genetic
And so are you
If you ever see me and think I look mad

You should see my father
Poppa, grandpa, I forget the name
You gave
I’m sorry, but

Amelia, Molly to broken condom

The lamps are on you now
I might be on this stage
But these lights aren’t burning me

They’re recognizing you

The imminent truth of your existence

The internal struggle
Man vs. man
In the literary sense

Laid out in front of these people

Holy shit these people
Eh...
Fool them with a funny haiku

Because Molly

When life dreams
The only loosely translated reoccurrence

Is you
Amelia, Molly for short
I can’t bear to call you by your full name

But
Amelia Elizabeth Gardner
Don’t take these words
In a punishing tone
You don’t walk slow you mosey
And medically my heart beats too slow

So it will take me time to love you
But, Molly
No

Amelia
Remember this
I can never be the exception
I can never be the dad, mom wants you to think

You know
You’ll always be my girl
Never my cliché
If you ever truly want to love something
You’ll have to find it
On your own.

Faux Rimbaud

 

Not spelled, but spoken in rhyme

He
Experiences all the impulses
To love

An infinitive
Love for an infinite amount of time

Usually
Attach a child to a life
Rather than attaching
He hurled himself against it
Yielding the mask of the rebel
Whose scatological ...
2b. the psychological study
Of an obsession
Images blasphemed
From the thoughts
Of an equally masked
Red woman
He said to me, “Do I look fucked up?”

No
You look like a nice guy
Your sound though
Is quite a bit fucked up.
“My sound?
My sound is hollow.”

He
Naturally
From years of memory
Times failure
Rejects the mother
A wet nurse to him.
One of the many
Masked red women
He
Regains the mask of the rebel

The road
Comes naturally to him
The exiled poet
Who speaks only in spoken word,

“You know?
You need souvenir
From being commando.”
He
In Afghanistan,
Baghdad
The eye of the desert maelstrom

No
The universal solider
In the ongoing war of the words

Moving like water

Two hydrogens
And the ever life-bringing O
Gone, gaseous, ghost less
He says to me,
“The three people talking
The hollow voices
The three voices
Commandos.
Want some vako?
You got a place to stay?”
No
Faux Rimbaud you baffle me
214 words so far
The only words
That have ever been in your honor

Where is the mask of the rebel?

Why are your boots not worn dry?

What the fuck is the souvenir...

The poem
He looks at me hollow
Back straight
Commando
I
Produced to be another solider
In the syntactical firefight
Now yielding a freshly carved mask

None other than that

Of the red woman

Leading him on
To find

The infinitive love

Of another
Loved
For an infinite

Amount

Of time.

Frisco, Sweet Frisco

 

Your veil hangs in the mist

Like a midsummer’s bride

The tourist’s bridge
Like lipstick

Glossed over
Twice a month
To cover what the bay couldn’t hide

The rivets in your back
Hold together
Your secretly rusted vertebrae
And when the sun decides to shine
You block the blinding light of god

With one of many clichéd pale faces

The father, the son, and the Holy Spirit

Religiously fire away
Leaving color-changing moles
Atop cancer-like traces
As your vagrants pick at the skin

Chinamen mingle amongst their heads

The drugged out dreamers
Dream of living in a culture
Of counters
That have done the math
And solved the city dead
But, Frisco, baby

If your streets were even and flat

Your hips wouldn’t be half as alive

The thrill of the game
The sweat of the climb

Trickles down through the glitter

Of your ecstasy-pumping
Castro gay eyes
If I could go back baby

I wouldn’t
A one-night stand is no way to leave

But if you’d take me
I’ll sit here
Inhale Parliaments
Not like Sinatra
But similar to Kerouac
Ginsberg and the boys
Frisco
Open the liquid of the gods
And put my heart in the bay
Where the bigs sit on thrones

Where a lump heart sinks
And fossilizes
Forever in the palm of your hand

Frisco, baby
Goodbye is too good a word

So I’ll settle for good morning

And as the sun rises
The spring brings rain
Bleak and beautiful

Five more suicides
The notes catch wind as you inhale

Flipping that midsummer veil
Back over your Frisco
Sweet Frisco eyes.

 

 

Ode to Firecreek

 

 

Even if I teach you
how to catch a falling knife
your chances are still
fifty-fifty.
Even if I teach you how to love
fuck it and rhyme
you would decide
that you are not meant to be with me.

I’m the first-rounder
who gets knocked out
for yelling
fuck Andrea Gibson.
Rest, rest.
Wait and see
if a blatant insult
gets taken as a joke.
Wait for the Hindu gods to congregate

because, I know your beef with Jesus.

The odds still
fifty-fifty.
The rebel yell cries out through me

she’s just an angry lesbian.
I agree with her stance on some things

but how can a voice be unique

when all her followers
cry, genetics
genetics

fake New York accents
and tight black homoerotic genes.

The hypocrite in me whispers

look down
my genes, as black as Malcolm X

faded, but up for interpretation.

Me on this stage crying out

you’ve won.
You’ve won.
Andrea.
How many cd’s have you sold?

Will you give me one
as consolation?
The odds fifty-fifty.
This poem isn’t funny
and it’s not about inner beauty.

The truth,
the truth is only the truth
when it’s dug up and resurrected

from a fairly decent lie.
For some reason
the eighth-grade Aryan me
thinks you should all be curb stomped with a

bible.
Lesbians, queers
and whatever is newly PC,
but even as their teeth
crack across Revelation
they would love each other.
They would be holding hands
in any way
that is so much more
than the cop out adverb
of passionately.
Who am I to say?
You people aren’t enthused.
I’m not yelling anymore.
Hate me.
Hate the martyr
that had to throw away
two beautiful lives
to find that his died long ago.
Hate me
the man who stands soiled
and lonely
save a shovel.
A man
who wanted to bury the bodies,
but ended up uncovering

the already found truth.

Love yourself.
Love each other.
Love your children.

Fucking love anything,

because this world

is made up of pieces of shit like me.

Love this poem.
Hopefully,
for humanity’s sake,

the odds still

fifty-fifty.

 
 
 
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