The time I lost myself soul-searching in bathroom mirrors,

I discovered what it means to be alive.

You wrote me the Bible when you said,

”Baby, we’re all sorts of fucked-up.”

Your words hit me the way the cigarette bite

burned my lungs.

The ghost-like smoke, lazily spilled

from my mouth

as the coffee house foreplay led to

dark alley salvation.

My words are Power Ranger Band-Aids.

No matter what Dad said,

I’m positive they heal you faster,

and they look way more badass.

So blanket your wounds in my words,

and peel them off quick if

you think you’re ready.

Because it’s a shotgun double suicide

written on the backs of church pamphlets

while sitting in pews that felt like

elevator knife fights.

But you have got to believe there’s a way

Out of this place.

Like the other guy’s blade

is a butter knife

and I’m made of margarine.

But really,

I’m the only one in here.

Waging a predictable war with myself.

Floor after floor,

I aim to cut some sense

into my hands

So I can feel what its like to

shake hands with the devil.

The cameras catch me

in an epileptic two-step,

stabbing with the business ends

of safety scissors, just to

get my point across.

I didn’t want to be a Gentile.

I fought it because

my parents said so.

18 yrs.

I am but a whisper,

the way my body floats through life.

My soul is stuck in Ohio, Indiana, and Ireland.

Forgiveness is there.

I didn’t hope to be a Gentile.

I tried to be a follower,

but the hurt in my eyes burned

the bibles I grew up with.

And the hated in my blood

runs out in steel strings and ink pens.

Now, the night skyline traces the trees with a

soft gray blanket of atmosphere.

What’s left of visible clouds

sporadically indent the dark air.

Reminding me that

this may one day pass.

The moon hides behind houses lit by neighbors

living separate lives.

Looking up for fleeting glimpses of falling stars or bombs

I’m stuck convincing myself that I’m invincible

I still drive with my low beams on

as if I’m afraid of what lies ahead of me.

Clutching whatever humanity lies dormant inside.

Eyes wide open.

Not to give them the satisfaction of

hydrating themselves in the event that

people will see me for who I really am.

That was the day my father had better things to do,

and the day I realized

I have his eyes.

And on the 54th floor

those eyes looked back at me

and smiled as they pushed the blade

deeper into the empty spot where his place was.

I didn’t ask to be a Gentile.

But I am.

I cherish and keep rushing thoughts as if they were diaries.

Like I am trying to live my whole life by tomorrow,

hoping for a lifetime of love to fall through my tainted hands.

I want to know what normal feels like

because everyone tells me its great.

To know what a million dollars feels like

because its a manner of speech and momma always told me

to have good manners.

And to be honest.

But my normal is budgeting tattoos and poetry books into my monthly wages.

Along with cannabis, kind words, and duct tape because I know

those are the only things that keep love alive.

Yes, I will be old and covered in ink with holes in my ears and face,

and the only arthritic bone in my body will be my middle finger

because its nice enough to say,

“hey, I love you but you need to grow up.”

I first saw God that night I squeezed the moon like a lime,

but I was ten years early and too poor to buy tequila.

So we put sugar on the rims of mountain dew margaritas

because even now salt doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

I saw Him again that one northern Ohio winter

that was almost cold enough for me to quit smoking.

Harboring hate like the Titanic and ramming it into

my iceburg heart.

He said to me, “hey, I love you but you need to grow up.”

Then he lit a hurricane.

The rain couldn’t stop me from stealing sidewalk chalk.

I loved the blue powder it left,

like dehydrated raindrops.

I precipitated hopscotch squares too long to travel

and promised at the end that I would find Jesus.

Those long drives home to my clumsy pup and humble saint mother

taught me that there are things worth fighting for.

And things to fight,

like those chalk tears,

creating endless streams of sanctity.

I do this for her

because even when I shout “fuck” in front of church crowds,

she knows I speak with the blunt conviction of love.

And even after discovering the dead bodies of

adolescent rebellion in my room,

she loves this fuck-up.

So thanks for the manners because it drives girls crazy.

And thanks for the truth because it makes my words worth something.

Every time I find a chapbook

In a used bookstore

I get a burning desire to

Rescue it.

They are always laden with

The memories and the dreams of

Ink pen warriors.

Someone out in the world

Bold enough to share their most

Intimate secrets with

Complete strangers.

The Underdogs.

I imagine a wordsmith

Losing sleep over the perfect

Placement of syllables.

I wonder how many hands

Have passed the little Chaps around

Like fifty page harlots.

The bookstore looks more like

A brothel, going under since the

Industrial Revolution.

You can almost see the

Steam billowing from the pages.

And you can sense the desperate

Author trying to eat poetry.

I wonder how Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Felt in 1958, selling his book for one dollar.

As if his words weren’t worth more.

I want to liberate the Russian literature

From the oppressive binds of the

Fifty-cent shelf.

To give back to those from whom

My fathers took so much.

I owe it to them,

The poor little Chaps.

Sent off to die in the

Scholastic Army.