Just Just Just Just

When I was a toddler
my father was in prison,
brushing grout on tile floors
on all fours, for forty fucking
cents an hour

he hurt his hand
his right wrist while
fucking filthy floors
with a forty-cent brush,
but today -

right now,
I write this from a
computer he paid for,
in a house he helped
buy, you and I, and I

I spend it writing
poem's made from
broken mirrors,
(clear frames, but
cracked cent-erz).

Can he still hear
the sound of the
Warden or the chimes
over the loudspeaker,
while mother and I

sleep so silent?

Pour **** on the Broken Places

Love is
seeing
perfection
in

imperfection.

Can We Start Again

Can We Start Again
Go back to what it meant
back then?

My closeness to
the candlelight
with inkpdippeddeep

deep darkness drips
from my quill and
I'm still ill with

pregnant passages
morning sickness
nigh-time nausea,

my mind is still
the capture and the
master, the terrible master

pushing out spirits
and ghosts and
spinning old flames

on the dance floor
of memory again
-

I've seen the glory
of the coming of the
Lord, and he spoke to me

Jason
You are insignificant.
These words are alone

like scrolled-bottles
in the sea, or dead
soldiers in the dump

sent away from me.
Just dance and love
and be a wild / free,

that's all you can
ask, that's all
you can ask of me.