This is,

February 16, 2011
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My heart is dangling
From a web of pulsing veins and hopes
All clustered around a high wire whose edges are that of saw blades.
Its chambers are full to bursting, heavy with thoughts of you.
Sinking lower
It sways from side to side
Caught in a tide of astounding blue hue,
Your eyes.
Brilliant golden thread flows from crystalline clear follicles on your head
And I know I’ve seen this somewhere before
It was when god was weaving one of his angels,
Your hair.

But this isn’t your poem.

This is for the little brother,
Crouching on ash covered carpets
Before a moonlit window
Plucking stars from the sky
Because where we live?
Fire flies have gone extinct.

This is for that one kid,
He’s found in every high school
World wide
Found in every generation,
In every nation,
That kid with the beard.
Because I see that.
When he comes before us,
I see that he shakes
He sweats
It’s as if a series of quakes
Climb that unsteady latter of a rib cage
Causin his limbs to quiver
Makin his paper jitter
But then he starts speakin
His words are that of thunder
And the syllables he spits are a storm
Every sound seems to strike us like lightning
Yeah folks he’s frightening.

This is for the shadow stepper
For he treads on trepidation every time he walks the hallways of his home
So he makes his way to his safe haven
The boy sits on a throne
A throne composed of broken and splintered wish bones
I can see him smiling now
He’s happy to be speakin through me
Because he’s sore
Sick and tired of all these bastards
Treatin him the same
Hell he should be praised for surviving
The way he was raised
Responding to knocks on bruised
Battered walls
Because the rats living with him don’t scurry
They lay there lazy all day
He was obligated
Forced to clean at the age of six without any pay.
So now with these words
I place a crown of thorns on his head
And drive iron nails through his wrists
Nailing him to a crucifix.
Because he’s got the right to be worshipped
Not these jacka** jocks
Not these guys who prefer to play with balls
And roll around with each other half naked on mats.

This is for The Metal Head
The misfit
Some say he’s a mystic
That he hones horrific powers of his own
Im sure if we peeled back
His skin
His flesh
His muscle
We would see it shimmering
Shining like diamonds in his bones.
Now listen closely
His heart beats to the rhythm of a war drum.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul
But when you look into those glazed glossy glistening eyes
Don’t expect to see the same man standing on the other side
Only a tree line shaded in shrapnel
And a boy who was too young to carry a gun
Clutching a live grenade and first aid
He stands over a wounded woman.
Shes caked in a fine fix of mud and blood
Then you look away.

This is for The Man of Bronze
And for those strands of impurity
That stream across what he considers his rusting callous carcass.
They collaborate
Come together and form this complex cadaver, this perplexing puzzle
Precariously perched on these toppling tombstones.
I ask him why he is here
Why he continues sewing
Thoroughly threading these destructive strings with ease into his sacred scars.
They look as though he took a torch to them
Probably to weld them shut.
His voice was raspy.
I’m falling apart
I’ve been torn in two one too many times
After leaving my heart open to the ones I’ve loved
So ill seal it away with these stitches
It’s the only way I can hold myself together nowadays.
I need more thread.
Judging by the rope burns on your metallic neck,
I think you’ve had enough.
Now come out from under your storm cloud
Away from this unhallowed ground.
If you were meant to be with the dead you would already be six feet under.
Besides, you’ve still got a part to play in my life.

And finally, this is for the solemn poet
For I awoke this morning
Enveloped in a blanket of misfortune
Then in a stoned stupor
I swung my legs over the edge of a rickety wooden bed frame
That creaks in a way that makes you wince
Like when you’re reminded of your shady past.
I stood up.
I went to take a step
Fell flat on my face
And laid there slack jawed
Then from my open maw
I felt the fluid begin to flow
Like rivers erupting
It ran rampant through the caressing crevices of my lips.
I watched as two drops of ink
Moving malevolent shadows
Manifested themselves as a large man and a young boy
Their displaced hands clasped and intertwined like growing vines
Teetering on trembling teeth
They leapt leaps of faith
Made suicide dives through nicotine clouds
Plummeting past dancing dust particles
I reached out to save them
The Northern and Southern regions of my left palm
Looked eerily like Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
I never saw myself as the one who would drop bombs
So I smiled
I had living proof.
I always knew writing was in my blood.

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