Untitled
my mother is a pile of dust between two bricks
unable to be condensed to a finer powder
she sleeps in her ashtray
next to the cigarettes that numb her
I walk through the door
just make a good impression
greeted by a tidal wave
call it manic depression
i try to collect her
but she slips through my fingers
spilled milk
old bills
strewn across the floor
linger
sometimes I worry
I can’t spin this in a beautiful way
and if I can’t make sense of her pain
she’s left a broken woman
Is it all about the cheese
plant a seed
grow a house
set a course for cheese
buy a nice spouse
milk a lightbulb
screw a cow
the party’s great
the tea tastes foul
born into debt
born into a cage
born into fast food
born into rage
my future will be bright
i’m just not sure at what age
what about yours?
still sniffing cheese behind locked doors?
scratching away until fingers bleed
pain always taking a step back for the need
symptoms include car insurance
and planned pregnancies
do you really care about any of this or is it all about the cheese?
lately the sun’s been hitting the cracks perfectly
they’re beautiful cracks, see
but you get tired of looking through them
Tony
the fridge is stocked with milk and old flyers
i’ve been tired for awhile now
we used to eat dirt behind the shed
while the truck driver got the drips
again and again
a pine tree sprouted out from under the bed
forcing its way through the centre
of the sheets still stained red
a design unfolding
camouflaged in benevolence
Dad looked away
and the dogs didn’t bark