Where I came fromChalk crushes under my footshatters and scrapesbeautifully as I hear the familiarSnapCracklePopof memories. I nurture it and paint my lifein fingerprints from theleft of my brain.I use careful, enraged strokes tocapture the vulgar sweetness ofthat house.My room, my jungle:A twinkling circus paper border with darkened, frayed edges.My Mother fights forsurvival in the kitchen:Cheap grind of lemon fleshagainst plastic, theweeping jaundiced carcassa blinking eye in hisline of vision.Her grip tightens:knuckles whiteas the ice spewingfrom his mouth.And me, willinglyimprisonedas I run my tremblingdigits over Barbie'seyes. One…two…Sixteen. The number of thatbeloved bitch.Every window is a page from thatfirst chapter of my life.12 years later as we drive awa
Our Greatest WriterAn outcast.Born from an illiterate evening ofmisspelled passion, his life was to be a trueComedy of Errors.Out of his young hands came words…At night he dreamedA Midsummer-Night's Dream,weaved a pair of star-cross'd lovers.Words as powerful as Julius Caesar himself.For the Twelfth Night runningI lie in my second best bed.I try to recreate a masterpiece.I breathe in rhyming couplets.I sleep in a soliloquy.I-AM-BIC-PENT-A-MET-ER- - -?He hid a thousand smilesin every laboured letter thatleaked from his loved pen.My efforts come to dust.I rush out into the Tempestof the night.Every star is a sonnet to me.All's Well That Ends Well…The timeless labour of the windand the universal rain may screamat others, but to me they whisper:'Shakespeare'.
What we throw awayToday I emptied out the bin.Turned it overTurned it out like the spilt gutsof a rabid beastHungrily hungrilysearching like astarved fox. Myeyes were spinn-ing in my head.Tiny littered circlesof decayed tomatoflesh.Today I sat in our waste.I should have hated it butI loved it to deathEagerly eagerlylike a crisp packetplague.I held the shinytorn wrapperslike a mirrorand I found a lady Iknew in a magazine. Icut out her smile for later.There was paperand in my plasticbrain I fashioned itinto the shape of atree. Ibathed like a dolphinin the soothing scentof rotting leftovers.I had made myself acarboard box kingdomI wrote the address overanother on a filthyenvelope...6000 mileswestof the Amazon.