I go in the kitchen,

see her squat shape

squared, hunched

as she urinates into

the purple plastic bowl.

This is my home now.

This is my home.


This is the place

where plates pile up with old food,

old stories, old news

is hoarded to peruse

and bring out on display

because pain doesn’t go away.

And bowls devoid of chicken soup

for the soul are instead

pissed in and poured out

by pissy preachers  on a roll.

Others use hoods

to cover their eyes

as a way to hide from the lies.

My parents kid themselves:

He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

She loves you, yeah, yeah yeah.

But what is love

and what is marriage

but a carriage horse drawn

with horses dead, flayed, torn?

From ruins opinions born.

My brother and I: jaded, bored.

And full of hurt, pride, scorn.

This won’t be us.

This won’t be us.

We won’t be scrambled,

trampled, bruised.

By the zombie horse

on course with cart and carriage.


we are not you.

We won’t be you.

We will love true

or remain alone,

our solace true.



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