She Hated The Name Francis

She died in her bed alone,
Upright but slouched over,
Clutching her broken heart.

In an austere apartment in Corona,
With few earthly possessions,
Some butchered pictures and Elvis memorabilia.

My stepfather found her.
I always thought it would be me.
It was the first time I ever felt sorry for him.

It had been ages
Since we’d seen each other,
Since we left or were told to leave
Depending on where you get your stories
And what you choose to believe.

I thought of my mother everyday.
I felt bad for her.
It’s my thing, you know, feeling bad.

I wrote countless drafts of her eulogy.
Which always seemed a horrid thing to do.
I mourned the living.

She scribbled tear soaked letters to me
In a book I bought her, I read them posthumously
And now I have an urn I can’t bear to fill
And a good night’s sleep is impossible.

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Foxglove

You dozed off in my arms.
The dog did too,
At my feet.

I marveled at Russian figure skaters,
The lost city of Atlantis,
You.

With all these wasteful channels you are the only thing that keeps my attention.

I hope you dreamt of me.
I have you so who needs sleep.
I hoped we never fall out of love,
Poison ourselves, or ever sink
To the bottom of the ocean floor.

Think to yourself,
You have it all.
Be happy.
Don’t fuck it up.

Mona

I was thinking about you

When the moon winked at me

And asked if it’s natural to feel this lonely?

 

You share the same distance

And I, don’t have the strength

To take my socks off.

 

If only you could be my satellite.

Draw me away from the uncertainty,

Find me the right words, not just vulgarity.

Bad words are whispered on wrong celestial bodies.

 

You’ve stargazed, behaved immoral.

A tender miscreant

Kissing behind dumpsters,

Averting the gaze of a monocle,

It gets dirty looking for treasure.

 

I am always thinking about you.

I just wish I knew what you looked like

So I could stop soiling my bed.

 

Circle Pit and The Pendulum

Open the chamber doors.
The venue is a place of worship
And there is nothing holier than the stage.
Flawed poets.
Throwback Gods.
Sing the scripture
You felt you could have written.
Make it gospel,
It helps you feel less alone.

Drink ticket eucharist.
Duck taped set list.
This is a ceremony.
A cult and its devotees.
I want your eyes fixated on me.
Scream the words,
Fingers pointing,
We understand all of this is
A momentary reason for living.

Speak in tongues.
Bang your head.
A show is the closest thing
To a religious experience
I’ve ever had.