waiting for rust

back to this

cold and grey
and the eye of god
closed tight against the
raw sound of animals
dying terribly

you were hoping for
something better

a child of your own

a small white house
in a quiet town
but here we are on
beecher street where white
is not a color

is instead
a waiting for rust or
maybe just bleach spilled
across a favorite

a minor shade of despair
and even if the
sun shines it casts
only shadows

and even if
the windows break
we’ve forgotten how
to bleed

and there is never a
shortage of angry fists
trying to help us to


you dream of
being anorexic

of glamor and
and the bitter taste
of bleach

and i want a
and a house in
the country

the promise of

and i laugh when
you put the knife to
your wrist

when you put your
hands through
the bedroom window

i either bruise you
or ignore you
and you always beg
for more

in love like a
bad top forty song

and i’ll let you be
an addict
if you let me be
a failure

just show me
that smile


thirteen year-old
suicide in
the first tentative days
of spring

the sun big and beautiful
and without heat

the noose tight at
both ends

it’s a small price to pay for
or the atomic bomb

nothing crazy horse
could’ve seen coming

nothing reagan
ever pretended to care about

and on good days
the highways still take
the rest of us
where we have to go

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