Tom Hanifin-Binghampton, New York 2014

Organizer: Tom Hanifin


The few remaining excerpts that survived the constant burnings of the long feared publication “Scars of Womb Envy!”Tom Hanifi

The Tear or Being Driven to Suicide by Chemical No. π

God forbid any tear of weakness worth having
begin falling like a pearl of emotion
in the presence of just one
of the High Priesthood of reality
all deaf dumb and blind with their dogmatic sanity.

Therefore God forbid any tear of weakness worth ever having
begin crashing on the shore as something more than just a long lonely prayer
but still strong enough for begging and thirsting and starving for nothing
but dreams of a body and a mind…almost worth loving.

by the deceased poet who wants to forever remain…Anonymous

Last Summer

After the dress code had been properly broken.
After the gift had been carefully opened.
After he was sternly instructed
to stop the practice of poetry
by someone in authority.

The tabloids kept from the public the official cause of death was an unwanted heart
with judicial misconduct, corruption, malpractice and starvation being listed
as only contributing factors that led him to finally give up towards the end.
So for lack of evidence and so everyone could feel relieved his life was at last over
and because it looked good on paper…no charges were ever filed against another.

Whereas long after his letters had been put to the sword
and by the time they found his lying corpse feeding the earth
for someone else to move it to somewhere else that doesn’t matter.
The coroner accused the sun. Then put the wind on trial. And convicted all the animals in absentia
for scattering the remaining flesh and bones.

Then concluded but never stated these last words were almost prophetic:

If he is not released in time.
If his egotistical whims are not granted.
He will inevitably die…at least sooner than expected.


The Prenuptial

According to the prenuptial…winner takes all…in the divorce proceedings finalized next week.
The looser leaves with his heart…he doesn’t want either.
She takes the beauty of all the seasons yet to be…along with his last Harvest Moon
while he takes the burning embers of love…he wanted her to own…longer.

And because money was never an issue his golden pen is still trying to guarantee
child support and alimony…and happiness for who ever is currently…her favorite…in bed.

Where it all went wrong is hard to say.
According to Court documents it is the usual story.
According to her, according to him…they agreed
she wasn’t responsible…and he was completely…for the end.

So psychiatrists were brought in from around the globe
to solve the unsolvable…Freudian problems.

Europe was discussed as not nearly far enough away an asylum…for him to be exiled to.
So he agreed to further conditions of abstinence…from political and religious discussions
and to continue to study the names of every current sports figure…of the ancient world.

After filing papers did she ever again think of him with the same tenderness…as during their short walks home?
He may never know because she was always prone…to those types of mistakes in judgement…for others.
But since he has been to the summit and he had been to the abyss…even his grand daughter learned to fear him
because he simply called too much and scribbled inappropriately too much…from both places.


For Marcie

We met in the asylum.
She was Jewish and vegetarian.
I was a God and on lithium.

My mysticism enchanted her then,
this was before she left.
I found her later on
still Jewish and vegetarian
she found my divinity…lost.

So we talked
over beer
and records
and in the kitchen on Thorpe Street.
She wanted to know of the war
if Christmas was still coming
if Israel was still awaiting the Messiah.

“I am lost.” I tell her…it is my only magic.
We are not lovers…so I write her this poem
because her smile is still warm.


For Nancy

We parted in the judge’s chambers.
You talking of your dreams
as I…embraced by chains…tried to remember mine.

I believe you expected too much from the prisoner.
I never promised to stay hard…forever.
It is enough I am the strongest you will ever know.

Do not be deceived.
I’ve not forgotten
clutching the earth.
And I am proud to say
I was alone
when I lost my mind
for all the right reasons.

Now, let it haunt you to remember the Bible story
only angels will whisper to my children:
No messiah ever came West or East of Eden
…to shoplift water and wine.

And your groom should know he will never
face the miracle requests that slaughtered the Lamb.
As for you this is the last vigil I will ever pay thee:
I’m ashamed to say…I believed until the very end
…even your lies.


Obsessing About The Art of War

As the story unfolded between manic house work
to laughter and tears and beers in the peaceful garden
to wondering how long it could last to arguing about the hot water
to wanting to be saved
…to full blown hostilities being declared on the most vulnerable
in an instant he again became a full member of the Dead Relationships Society.

Until peace finally returned to rewrite this chapter to be:
He will never be your friend. Because you are everything he is not.
For he wanted too much…for you to be the hated enemy
…he could hold even closer to his heart.

And I know it sounds absurd but it may be true.
He only wanted to use your beauty and soul
…to torture with his obscene crippled mind
and with what ever dregs of pure love
he hoped more than anyone could try to believe…he might have left.


Love is cruelest

When your heart is breaking because you know…it’s over
and it ended because you tried too hard
or not hard enough…to hold her…in your arms.

Love is cruelest

When you know…you let it die
easier than you gave it birth
and abandoned her for something you wanted…because she is what you needed

Love is cruelest

When you remember…the beauty of her soul
even more than the beauty…of her body

But love is cruelest…of all

Because just when you are sure it will never end
…it always does.


For Emily

The Apology

I know he would have survived better by leaving the world like Van Gogh
and with one less ear or with one fully severed testicle
…instead of leaving a gift from his childhood, my deer.

Because when it comes to life’s cruelty it is not always easy
to make a vessel of poetry…from the clay of every living tragedy.
After all…it is not like he never knew the terror of 10,000 nites of lonely confusion
or could stand being brave burning with the fires of love for very long
or ever knew what he was doing for very long
or until…it was too late.

So forgive me…at least as much…as I beg more than anyone I know can pray
you will never have to beg…to be forgiven this much.


For her mother

Wedding with out the Bride

I don´t mean to suggest that I loved you the best.
You made it too easy for me to never greet
all my rivals for you to know why
I didn’t I love you better instead of only more
than the gathering of all their hearts combined.

And if I was cruel it wasn’t by choice.
It was only because I wanted you so desperately
to know I was unselfish in the end by not trying harder
to be kinder with time just to welcome you deeper
into my leprous arms.

But for no other reason than to remind myself
by now even I know the rumors are true:
You were wrong…my embrace is no good for anyone
who wanted to learn even this much
how to love…me.


Prayer for the Death of a Grandfather

He came from the dysfunctional side of the human family.
So…he was dysfunctional.
She came from a small tribe. So it was not about the money.
She was fed up with him…being fed up…about the war.

Medication and quitting helped him survive
the death of fall…and rumors of another ice age.
Children, the beast of pray and a 1,000 lovers helped her…go on forgetting
medication and quitting…helped him at all…replace her laughter.

Like any coward…he wanted to blame everyone
but who was responsible…for his inevitable train wreck.
So she offered to translate his poetry…so it would rhyme for the world.
Here is a test. You can begin…with this apology to your daughter by the unsavable:

Don’t take the unforgivable so personal.
Forgive him as easily or as hard as you would anyone who hungers
for life when they felt they were dieing in the beauty of childhood
as the smallest of the ugly and unlovable.

Despite all his cruelty…between his circumcision and death.
Despite all his blood letting…between the diseases of the mind and the cures of his soul.
But most of all…because your mother believed his story…I want her more now than ever before…to believe what he knows.
For me it will never be an easy prayer to undue pain in the here and now by saying…good-by forever.


For Sophie

Without her consent
he swore to tell her everything,
the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Therefore he grew as boring and as dangerous
…as the Geneva Convention.
After all he never meant to imply…he would be easy…to love.


On the pages of some Holy Book…from long ago is the following inscription:

Stolen especially for Maid Marion
who never understood Robin
who never understood himself the hungry…can steal.


A Street Called Berlin

I remember a knock once at the door of an old lover…who I lost.
It was a dark time I want to forget
carrying a child through the streets of Sodom
only to arrive late trying to break into the room
she had for anyone…but an infant boy.

In those days like today it was a typical Inn.
The owner was well protected…by guards.
So I tried even the magic of begging…for love
which leads me to the question…why
do you think by saying my name was Joseph
would it have given my family…a place to rest?

Do lies work better than prayer…
like years later when it was all in a typical days work
to trade stolen goods in Gomorrah…for medicine…for another child.


Death of an Elder

Some elders have a right to know.
Some are not that profound.
And for some…even teaching
obscenities and profanities to innocence
is not one of their charms.

So by the time he returned
to the real world…he began
to rewrite this story to himself:

Once upon a time
he could have been happy
with almonds and flowers…and her.
But he expected too much
because he wanted too little.

So as the funeral party moved on
a new lover tried to laugh and dance
at the music of these lines:
from flesh to flesh
from ashes to ashes
now she will never find you…hiding here.


I was there at the scourging
and remember the Crown of an Iron Age
pressed upon the brow.
There…bound in leather
in robes…moist with agony
they reminded the defeated Lover
what a slut and good fuck…the virgin is.

I know…I’ve heard the argument before:
the world knows nothing of Him
therefore He knows nothing…of the Earth
or the obscenity of crusades.

For that reason I understand this crucifixion:
it is Lucifer he wages war with
and follows…and leads each fallen angel
from the prisons of hell…against the thrown of heaven.

After all let’s not pretend the Father…is innocent of evil
for it was not born in the garden
not that kind…of hatred.
And even demons have their plan
in protecting martyrs
from your un-scarred body.

So do not tell me of blasphemy
not when the pure of heart have known
mutilation and despair
and a Deity so unmoved by prayer…it is frightening.

Now, let the ashes of my corpse terrorize you
in spite of him…in spite of her
in spite of the crimes of a forsaken Messiah
I have chosen sides and swear
I remain forever at war…with your God!

The Abortion

On the day you kept the rabbi from celebrating the bris
and the priest from performing the christening
the angels ceased to dance.

Now I give you these truths as evidence of my agony:
The womb is not so miraculous
as the lost mind…that gave birth
to the infants laughter.
The tabernacle is not so sacred
as the heart…that conceived
the fetal yearnings.
And nine full moons is not as long
as each day…I dream the child into life
and forever from my embrace.

My heartache will not heal; your innocence will not return.
For I have this scar you left as a memory…of your love.


I remember as a child
the woods
and even
farther away
where the rainbow
promised to touch the Earth
and the side of a hill
and the birds who lived there.

We picked blueberries then
and swept a path through the green jungle
vowing to never reveal
the secrets
we’ve now forgotten.


It’s easier to talk in the third person
to tell you what I know about him.

He was upset…with you
with the empty bed
and with himself.

That is why he left
the phone off the hook
to warn you
of his anger
and his wounded vanity
…and his phobia of phones.

And that is the most important thing I can tell you.
He is not proud
he can not abandon his hatred
…even for the wrong reasons.

If you knew him better
you’d understand
at 11:00 p.m.
he wanted to call
to torment you
with the love
of his tormented heart.

But the man is no fool.
He was wise enough to know
he did not want to know
…it was already too late.


For Stephen…who doesn’t want to know me

You don’t really know this but had I pressed the matter
I could have easily slept with your wife.

It wasn’t easy not to.
For me
she smelled more of the earth than of raw vegetables.
She was well trained in Jewish lore
She knew everything about Rodin’s mistresses and
she loved Michelangelo.

This is a warning: Don’t let her out of your sight.
I can tell you from past experience
some wives
…are easy to misplace.

I never saw you in Tina min Square
or St. Peters-burg
or in the other prisons
in Washington D.C.

I never saw you inhaling
tear gas in Paris
or in flames in Saigon
and in a hundred thousand
other cities and times
I never caught you…stealing
because you were hungry
or naked
or hunted
or wanted to share
a lost mind.

So do not tell me of love or freedom
and how to wage war
and especially do not tell me
how to protect children.

Halfway between the Pentagon and the clinic
my suicide note began
far earlier
on the road to Dachau
or was it Syracuse
or Front St.
that reminds me…I have no family.

I am only here to warn you
the last of the hippies

…is still alive.


Lucifer, I could have loved you
more once when you wore the tiara…at the Cyber Cafe.
But now you have the coveted crown…of loneliness to wear
so wear it wear it well…it becomes you.
Because hell is empty and Satan is gone…leaving you only
a thousand dollar phone bill and a wardrobe of chastity belts
each one colder than the last.

And where is Satan? Satan is lost…and in a lonelier place still.
Satan is in the nakedness of Limbo…and in the terror of wondering…with hopelessness
if he is the Messiah…or the Antichrist
or only in the agony of knowing he is loosing his mind forever…again.
And you want to go there with him…but you can’t
because you can’t hear his heart scream:
When can I come home…from the war against hate?
And can I ever come home…from the war against love?

So how did you think I would cum…and my kisses taste
when you took your phone from the hook and changed your address in a night?
Did you expect me to rest in peace…on the laurels
of yesterdays…dead poems?
And where were you…when Nature’s arms opened up
and a forsaken man cried out:
I have no scars. I can’t walk on water. I can’t change water into wine.
I can’t be him.

And I wonder…are you jealous of her now…when she whispered then:
That’s the way it’s suppose to be.
Because you have long legs and beauty and your breasts and thighs
are willing to be touched.
But is Venus still in heaven? Because Cupid is gone too
leaving her only…the dream of New York and holding hands
…in Harlem.

And sometimes I too forget…what ever happened
to the beauty of phone sex
and the beauty…I never knew in Spokane
who no doubt is already in the arms of another
trading in golden locks
for a more virginal phone number
than the one she lured me in with.

After all wasn’t the music of my poetry…as good and angry
as Patchable and Marilyn Manson
Or didn’t you like the conversations
and being welcomed to Limbo, my love,
and the War against War
where I’m still not sure…you were ever as nude
“…as the young and the hopeless.”


The Pretty Prostitute

Like Magdalene before her and the angels after her
she was aging…and on the other side…of expensive.
We collided, during a sick age…in a sick place;
I, with my delusions of grandeur…and she, with stories of torture.
There were wives there then…who argued in favor of damnation
for the whores of the day…and the whores of the night.
My whore was silent… so I argued…in favor of lovers.

It was useless…so to spite them…we shared cigarettes…and coffee
and holding hands…and an embrace
but a price was never agreed upon
for love…or dinner…or a picnic in the sun…and then she was gone.
Afterwords…by way of the streets…I found the address she gave me
and was invited…into her asylum.
So we talked again and embraced…and then in only moments
I too was gone.
I heard that day by means of the sick age and the sick place
she found my flowers and candy and music…unimpressive
so they ceased.

Later on…I came back to our meeting place…as I often do
for days or weeks or months or even longer
only to discover…she was already there waiting for me.
She discovered…I hadn’t changed…but I had by way of money
more stories now..of torture and pain.
She had the unfortunate type of misery
that did not like…that much company.

I remember…by morning this time
we were no longer holding hands
and by coffee…we were no longer talking
and even my coins had stopped impressing her.
What I do not remember…was why
she did not argue…when I said good-by
and made the cruel suggestion…that she have a good life.

It was a long time later…at a new meeting place
where my long lost whore discovered
I was still waiting for her and when I heard her say,
“You’ve changed.” I realized…she hadn’t.
She was still beautiful.
As for whether she was diseased
there are cures for some kinds of crimes
but there is no cure
for never knowing…if I was only…a one night stand.


For Barbara and Susanne


There was a child…and then a season later…another
who died at a very early age…victims of child abuse.

Even my love for you was not enough to save them.
And because of this…
the rainbow never again held a promise
…the sunset lost all it’s beauty
and the magic of the full moon…was destroyed.

You must understand for me there is no consolation
…no penance with enough pain
…no atheism with enough emptiness
…no cathedral with a God strong enough
to burn from my heart the memory of their innocence.


I confess…I am the son of Joan of Arc

And for proof…you who have only faith
are lost
while I have as a legacy
the honor to wear her armor
and to be heir to her courage
to hear a choir of angels
singing…the end of hope.

But because I am her child
I have seen
in the maiden’s eyes
the end of despair
born by the tears and incense
…of burning flesh.

So in the emptiness of this arena we share
let it now be revealed to you…why
I have the privilege…to carry
a shield of voices…sighing in the summer breeze.
It is because I have for a weapon…a woman’s sacred longing
to see her tempered sword…sheathed on the field of battle
in the enemies war…against the olive branch.

And that is the reason…I can not be bribed
by the argument of forgiveness
in the hallucinations of your court
that strives to inflict upon reality
a voice in time…for tyranny.

So do not tell me about the sins of humility
it is pride that keeps me from being tempted
…with the politics of salvation
and the dreams of the heretics Church
still drunk on sacrificial wine…and blessing the starving child
with damnation…for the theft of bread
consecrated to feed the poor.

For these and all my other crimes
I have chosen the rainbow…to blame
…for allowing me to remember
the deluge and the thunder
that is only an echo of the screams
of the excommunicated mother
who has beckoned me to warn you:

It is her favorite son who is incurably ill
with an insatiable desire
for revenge…for each day
an army of physicians…deepens the wound
left by the surgeon’s scalpel.

This is not an omen…this isn’t even a vow
it is only a prayer that was answered…in the beginning
when I was embraced…by a woman clothed in flames.
And she knows the truth of this punishment.
There is nothing wrong with her children.
They are alive and well
in a world

…that is raving mad!


Lake Shore Drive

This suicide note began before…or was it after
I remember playing there
beneath your neck
above your navel
underneath your leaves
amidst the sound of the bay.

Where we lived…in a bed…of paranoia
and poverty
and money…from stolen music
and enjoying sacraments…from any priest…who happened along the way.
The nights lasted forever then…and sometimes the work in the fields
and the factories lasted…even longer.

This suicide note began after…or was it before
I remember playing there
beneath your navel
above your thighs
underneath your leaves
only to raise my head from the scent of your sea
to answer the request from the next room
for sugar…for coffee…for tea
or another stolen bottle…of expensive wine.

It was easy pretending then…until our final words
as long as we forgot every morning
we had stopped talking…the night before.
After all…perhaps it does not matter…whether we lied to one another
because I know…even the courageous…have their moment of terror
…in the face of truth.
For even I found phone calls are sharper than the voices
leading to razor blades
which is the only proof…I need to know…the scars of your absence
still haunts me.

That is the reason I lied
so you would believe…this obscene truth:
the surest way…to the only heaven with you I knew
was through the pavement of hell
fashioned by the hate of the prisons I came from.
But by now…my softness would love companionship
even in the arms of a lessor woman
who does not care…about such profanities.

Perhaps I am only clinging…to not having enough cruelty left
to buy more innocence…with the bones…of more children
…who would be buried here.
Because now it is already time for the vigil to the end of our story together.
I was there one night…agony and passion came…and died in your arms.
So forgive me…this is the only wedding gift and blessing
I have left for you both:

Of all the beautiful and ugly angels
I have known and loved and hated
you were every God I ever dreamed of…and more.


is this punk.

if you have no scars, no perforated cheeks,
if you are not broken
you are [part of] the problem.
it’s true.
anyone who sees the world
as it is
cannot be asked to be an optimist
this is not a contest among voyeurs.
no…this is frightening.


The Dirty Book Store’s Place In Eden’s Revenge

I confess to you…and to setting lust free
…and to standing
as I did at Mid-Night Mass
…half lost
…half there
…and all alone
in the darkness of this confessional.

It is obvious I am cumming
…to witness the holy Acts
…transform the human bodies
…involved in…the passion play.
Therefore trust me when I tell you
during the sacrifice
…their positions
…have changed.

I am not lying.
I have stopped
kneeling…as a child
because I took my time
standing…as a man
who stumbled and fell.

it is comforting
to know:
I am not among the holy
host of spectators
a priest’s absolution
could save…from understanding…this mystery.

So let’s not pretend…the agony of lost innocence.
I am not looking for fig leaves…not here.
I am looking for childhood’s place…in the agony of guilt.
And what the shepherd girl has to do with the animals
…and the Lamb
…and the others…in the manger…which maybe why
I have no secrets to keep from the world…nor any that are kept from me.

And that is why…after all this time…the scar of vengeance…may still be mine.
Because I have come that far
to know
that look
the flesh
of your faithful wife.

Only you will understand
I will never tell
you will never know…the Fires of Eden
I found
beneath her leaves.


For Karen

Even as Amy Mann and Radio Head battle to be plagiarized
in the warmth of the cold garage
a war rages on…somewhere…in my manic schemes…and dreams
of the heat of your distant arms…still falling…victim
to my admittedly dieing ego’s…charms.

Desperately! Desperately! Desperately!
You are almost all I think of…saving…if that is what you want
from being among the ranks of the freaks
who were ever embraced…by him.

Because…once upon a time…a long long time ago
I told you a story to who ever you were then on another forgotten…drunken nite
my greatest crime…is knowing
like Samson knew…when his G-d led him
by means of the sewers of blindness…to bring down the Temple walls
my greatest sin…is not hating…enough
to trust anyone…with my darkest and most unimportant secret.
So…sew…sew…sew away…back on the farm, lover?

Desperately! Desperately! Desperately!
It is almost all I could think of…loosing…my heart if that is what you never wanted
as long as it will keep you forever…from being among the ranks…of the freaks
who suspected they could ever fall in love…with a leper.

Come on and let me save you…if that is all you want
and as long as it will help keep my spells…forever…from parting your thighs
like Moses once did with his magic…to the Sea.
Because you are all I think of…saving
if it will…keep you forever in my heart…and me from touching again
just another professional…in the business relationship of being
for me alone…just another woman…who is… an untouchable,

After all it is a cheaper and crueler and lonelier payback of revenge
than letting a man you will never know…wound you with tears
for all that he owes thee…for what my durty diseased mind

Desperately! Desperately! Desperately!
wanted to do to your perfect body for nothing…but thanks…for cigarettes…and the beers.

Now it’s your turn to save my soul…from you
Desperately! Desperately! Desperately!
wanting to do anything as payment…to learn…how to fall in love…with me.

Pornographic Note

As I watched you go alone and away…from me
on that horrible day I learned
I would never see your eyes.

I felt more powerful than Samson
when the eyes of my soul…were blinded
by some silent blessing telling me
to go alone and away…from you
on a chilly afternoon…at the end of the Sabbath…
on the nite of the seventh day…under a dark gray sky of aloneness
and there to await the parting of clouds…giving birth…to a floor of galaxies so high above me.

Swirling, swirling…swirling
to reveal in all their majestic glory and majesty
what I imagined to be…but the beatific tip…of your soul, my beloved…

Or is all that beauty I so desperately desperately desperately
wanted to find in you…nothing more…than the beauty…that is forever…with in me?


The Day of Atonement

As the Day of Atonement
and the season, month, year, century and millennium
in memory of the
One Great and Unending Holocaust
rapidly approaches

let us all reflect
not on the crimes
of a deaf and blind G-d
who has allowed it to go on

but rather
on what each of us
has not done
to end it.

if we are all together,
and the very universe itself
nothing but another experiment in life
in some petri dish of nightmares
only to make you feel small
in the mind of the Divine
at least for one moment
which is only the duration
of our individual lives

let each of us
leave that Creator’s very being
for all time and forever
in terror

It is only deaf and blind
because we left It so
in not giving a fuck
about the least of Hers/His/Its/Theirs
attributes of beauty

nor even those asinine and impotent powers
of mercy or compassion.

But instead we succeeded
in becoming greater
than any such G-d we left
in comparison to us
a cripple
by having more love
for each and every one of us
than It/They/He/She
had for all of us…

Hey, why the hell should we hope
for any fucking messiah to save us
when each of us
can be an army of one Messiah
among a legion
of Messiahs and Messiahesses

For low and behold
even if there is any G-d of ALL Love
I know for a motherfucking fact
is what the Cocksucker
is hoping we will do and

Love each other
more than any G-d…could fathom.


I’m looking forward to when I die
and finally seeing God…fucking weeping
and being inconsolable for a change
that the finest French kisser of my Age
who ever touched His/Her/Theirs/Its lips while I was alive

…is no more.



Obsession…for the one who hopes to never see him again

She survived several good…and bad marriage proposals by him
with the final one coming on a dark manic night…resulting in a divorce decree…by the courts.
So like anyone of his age…for whom the flesh is willing but the spirit is weak
this is just another last will and testament…to his confusion
and giving up too late the holy science of politics…and the art…of cruelty.

As for what G-d’s plan has to do with love
because the man was obsessed with it…and an enemy of it
but most of all because he couldn’t comprehend it
he decided wrongly their future together…was written…in stone.

And because statistically speaking more of his poems to her
died in the solitary confinement…of his youth
than of all other sources combined
the woman decided correctly she could help him forever…no more.

For he has no friends other than all those about him…who suspect him
of plotting…with evil…to destroy all those who he dared…come near
just a little…nearer, lover…to forgive me, lover…for in time I promise to love, honor…and know
you will forgive me for trying…to forget you…if that is all…you have come to ever want from me.



By means of drugs.
By means of confinement.
They cut him off…from being
an embarrassment to himself or others.

Then they returned him to the real world
where he was free at last
free at last
free at last
to make a longer
suicide list
from sunrise to sunset
and then all night
from lost friends to fallen lovers…only to discover
by morning he was here

still aging…and alone.


Violence on the Highway

By means of violence, by means of drunken debauched behavior
by means of an abortion and by means of lewd obnoxious suggestions
your lovers found their way in and out of your bed
while I waited and waited and waited and waited for decades…just to meet you.

Until one night I tried to establish once and forever it even takes more courage
to beg for the love of someone to hold my hand
than to die for a cause…in front of the factory of letters.

So forgive me when I am trying to compete…among men…who don’t know what they are doing
after all you are not the first my soul has used this closing line on…but for the sake of my heart I hope you are the last
I have to tell my greatest fear to…because with all the chaos I still don’t know
if it’s because I love too little…or I love too much…that I may never see you…again.


The Stories of the Streets are Mine…

Sunday Night

His mother would not return. Every Sunday night she left him and his brother here at this house, and each time he knew she would not return. His younger brother was the only one he really had for a companion, but the little one was too young to understand this. He was only just beginning to talk, and at times, despite his love, the older brother hated the younger one.

This house they would stay at for a week was not theirs, and it was already overpopulated by too many children. These other children belonged here. It was their home. He and the little boy with him were intruders here, and they competed with the others for food and water and, even more importantly…laughter.

The other children, the ones who belonged in this house, hated him and his brother. The others were good at teasing. They were good at lying and blaming him for doing things he did not do. But sometimes they were affectionate and almost kind to him. It was then that he almost forgot about his mother who would never return.

On Sundays he always cried the hardest right after he discovered she had left him again. Sometimes the people here would put him in the closet until he stopped whining. But some tears always feel because Sundays were always the hardest to endure because he had to begin all over again to win the hearts of the others and it was not an easy task to do. The other children were older than him, They all bossed him around all the time and if he did not move quickly enough, if he did not mind well enough, they would find new methods of torturing him until they were satisfied with his tears.

His mother was already gone and this evening he sensed more tension in the air than was usual even for a Sunday night. The other children were sneering, and he began to cry. The mother of the other children began to yell and then scream, and then she too was gone. It was then that they came at him. They were all laughing.

They were debating weather they should spank him or put him in the closet this time. They decided to ask him what they should do. He tried to go to the lesser of his fears…the darkness of the closet.

At fourteen, I was the oldest. One of my sisters handed me the belt. All of us took turns beating the two intruders until they said they were sorry, for what…we never knew. Before my mother returned, I let the sobbing brothers out of the closet…and gave them a hug.


“The wall, he decided, will always be there”

He awoke, or at least it seemed he did, for he could not tell if he had been dreaming or if he were dreaming now. He pushed the woolen, scratchy blanket away from his body. There were no sheets, and his skin stuck to the plastic mattress that smelled of others sweat and urine. After prying his flesh from the tenacious bedding, he managed to sit up. He was more tired than he had remembered. He was still dirty and thirsty and his eyes hurt as they squinted in the dim hazy light. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. For long moments, he sat that way fearing punishment for doing anything that might be wrong.

Eventually, however, his eyes grew accustomed to the shadowy light and he began to see things. Across from him he could see a wall. He wondered how long the wall had been there. The question struck him as absurd. The wall he decided would always be there. In this confusion, he meditated on the hardness before him until a thought of beauty entered his mind and the nakedness upset him. “There are no pictures…it has no pictures hanging from it.” Lacking the courage, or cowardice, to look away he continued staring blankly until his sight improved still further and he found something within the wall that excited him. “I forgot…about…color…I can see the color now!” He tried to give the color a name. “Dirty…” he thought. “Filth.” he said out loud. “It is a filthy color.” he whispered silently to himself.

Quickly, the excitement left him and he began to grow tired of looking at the wall, even the color began to bore him. The boredom gave him a sense of courage and he became bold. He decided to explore. Cautiously he moved his eyes to the right where he saw…a corner, Then the head began to turn to follow the lead of the eyes. They continued past the corner until they gazed upon something he recognized.

He hated what he saw, the familiar object that hid in the shadows…the thing that kept him here. He glared at it, but the closed and bolted door remained unmoved. It was then that he turned back to the wall he had grown to know and the boredom…he had grown to love.


“Well I’m still an embryo…with a long, long way to go…until I make my brother understand.” Helen Ready

“Three months into the womb I was already beginning to record memories.” Salvador Dali

“The only man with energy, yes the revolution’s pride…he trained a hundred women just to kill an unborn child.” Leonard Cohen

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