It still haunts me, the way his arm fell off the couch like a rushing waterfall with no outlet to the sea that would, with time, become nothing but brittle cliffs. The subtle shallow breaths that lightened his lake a little every time, sighed slightly upon exhale when the pernicious odor leaked from his cracked lips. I am nothing to him. I am furniture that gets in the way. I am evidence left behind. With rage which has calloused my heart I can only imagine releasing upon him the same physical wreckage which he has laid upon us, emotionally. I want to let go, I want to hurt him more than I want to save him. 

When I start hitting him I cannot stop. The world turns black, I cannot see where I am steering the car. I end up half way off the road but I cannot stop. I am a demon, slave to the vengeance he has deemed funny until now, when the true horror of my inhuman heart tears manically at my own kin, my own brother. See what you have made?! I want to scream. But I don't. I say nothing. I grab hold of the wheel and throw the two of us back onto the street. 45 miles an hour, I am just like him. 

So narrow the glades of fastened acute
Pieces of swallows of childish repute
Endless and quaint, tallied and judged
Harshly upon wallows of cypher and aspen
Called upon as soldiers, drilled and re-designed
A picture so stolid and quickly defined
Sordid and peachy, insipid and kind
Not a bigot at all, a human body and mind
Coldly washed ashore the banks of south Maine
The frigged and careless garbage of crabs
The tiny parcels of beige and dense atom compounds
The fucking insanity of pierced heels and tattered toes
Eats at our body and fastidiously shows

The Way To Fly

This could be the bridge

May I be so bold to claim 

The dim lighting brewed bean smell 

That wrinkles in our faces hold it all 

The secret that formed constructs of religion 

The fettered wiggle free from grudges rope 

That with time and space 

The wrinkles again 

Which held for years await 

The darker deeper crests of weight and trial 

To the touch, softer than spikes recalled

And from demon eyes 

Rose human life in every form 

From malice, resentment, indignation

A child soldier 

From remorse, negligence, solitude

Widows of war 

From joy despite the soreness and ache 

The aged and illiterate 

The wrinkles, which examined closely enough 

Peer into the heart

The identity, though perceived at a time 

A monster as relentless as time itself 

Now only and simply a human form