My mom is not my mother.
My real mother died young.
I have no memory of her.
I only remember my stepmother.
Who I called mom.
Because I knew no other.
They hid her from me.
My real mother.
So when I learned the truth.
The new truth.
That my mom.
Was not my real mother.
I have no memory of her.
Just the memories.
That my imagination makes.
When I see photographs.
Newspaper clippings.
Kidnapped. And never found.
Kidnapped by my father.
Like every other mother I’ve had.
Well, the ones I remember.
I loved them all.
My mother.
Tag: poetry
The Kite
I can’t remember the last time I flew a kite.
In fact, I can’t remember the first time I flew a kite.
Or even flying a kite.
I know I’ve gotten kites as gifts, and I remember putting them together.
And I live somewhere near a spot with large fields and far from power lines.
It gets windy here, too… perfect kite-flying weather.
But not today. It’s not windy. And it’s raining.
So, that’s why I have this kite-making kit with me.
In case it’s nice out.
And windy.
And I’m near a wide open field.
So I’ll be ready.
Walk away from a fight
I always found it hard to walk away from a fight.
Now, I have a hard time walking.
I always found it hard to talk my way out of a fight.
Now, I have a hard time talking.
I always found it hard to think my way out of a fight.
Now, I have a hard time thinking
I always found it hard to work my way out of a fight.
Now, I have a hard time working.
I always found it hard to walk away from a fight.
Now, I have a hard time walking…
Talking…
Thinking…
Working…
Fighting.
The Caged Bird
I don’t know what that Maya Angelou is getting on about, but she’s so full of shit.
I know the real reason why the caged bird sings: it’s a trick.
If you look closely, the bird’s stuffed. And when it sings, the beak doesn’t move. (It’s broken)
The singing came from a tape recorder built into the perch. Look. See it?
The switch is here on the electrical cord.
So that’s why the caged bird sings.
Why it sings Van Halen’s 1984 album? Because, I like classic Van Halen.
And I lost the bird songs tape that came with it.
That Shit Burns
I made the mistake of watching the news.
Our embassies were being attacked
Because while incinerating garbage
At a military base
Worn-out Korans had also been burnt
And this pissed Muslims off.
And our president
The leader of the free world
Apologized
Fucking apologized
Instead of telling them
Why don’t you take some of those
Billions in oil profits
Billions in foreign aid
Call up NASA
And buy the heat-shield tiles
That can survive re-entry from orbit
From the retired space shuttle fleet
And write your prophet’s words on them
Because when you put them on paper
That shit burns.
The Auctioneer
The man
With the sexiest voice
In the world
Was as an auctioneer
And he’d auction horses
And houses
And cars
And other things people didn’t want
Or need anymore
But his commissions weren’t
All that good
Because his voice was so sexy
Instead of raising their hands
To place their bids
People had their hands
Elsewhere
(He didn’t want to think what they’d do
With auction paddles)
So instead of watching
For people to
Raise their hands
He’d listen for them to raise their voices
In climax
He’d count that as a bid
Coming once
Coming twice
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh… sold!
Felt
Have you ever felt a felt-tipped marker?
Truly felt it?
Close your eyes…
Twist off the cap slowly…
Feel the tip on your fingertips.
Feel the wetness.
Your fingers drink it in… drink in the color…
The felt tip against your skin.
Draw… draw on your skin…
Lines. Curves. Angles.
Then… stop!
Put down the marker, pick it up again, twist on the cap so it doesn’t dry out.
At the sink, scrubbing scrubbing scrubbing!
Stop!
It is a part of you now.
It’ll have to wear off.
Staring back, your reflection.
Your face. Your forehead, marked:
I’M WITH STUPID.
Sting
Unlike you,
Bees have the courtesy to
Disembowel themselves
and die
when they sting someone.
The stinger rips out their guts
To pump in venom.
And unlike you,
Bees
Are peaceful,
And only sting when threatened.
You’re more like…
A wasp?
A hornet?
No.
They are hunters.
Predators.
Feeding their young.
Not their sad, pathetic ego.
You’re soulless
Mindless,
Like a…
Jellyfish.
A thousand jellyfish.
A gelatinous,
Rubbery
Cloud
Of slime and pain.
Swimming away
As fast as I can
Stung!
On my ankle!
On my arm!
On my neck!
Swimming harder
Crawling up the sand.
Screaming curses.
Crawling…
Free!
Bates
Back in the old days,
Norman ran The Bates Motel on a shoestring,
earning a few bucks here and there from people
who’d stay at the motel.
And for those who stayed
permanently,
I suppose he’d get a bit more,
since those folks didn’t really need all that
money and stuff they had with them.
If Norman had been around these days,
well, he’d have had a problem with social networking,
people tweeting
“A crazy guy in a dress
is stabbing me in the shower!”
and that kind
of hassle.
But at least the Yelp reviews
would actually be: “YELP!”
The Terminal
The dusty old terminal
Finally died
It gave up the ghost
And its circuitboard fried
With a grey puff of smoke
And electrical spark
The green pixels went
And the screen went dark
Decades of data
Burned into to the screen
Are all that is left
On there to be seen
This is the worst time
For the screen to go blank
Because I need to get cash
Out of the bank
I pull out my phone
And tap on the app
To seek out another
Machine on the map
There’s one down the block
(And that is a wrap)