He is a two-sided soul made of scars and something he's been hoping for.
A boy with enough rough drafts on his arms,
he may be the saddest poem I will ever write.
He says he's ready for the sky, so he makes himself bleed and it feels good,
when he finds several ways to die trying.
He's a young one;
already on his own,
with a skeleton of old bones he's been told has been put together
by his father's hands and his mother's restless soul.
Still learning what it feels to grow,
his bones are once again aching, they are breaking
free from his veins cackling like shackles
these falling winds feel like the whipping hands of a pistol.
He is an un-rehabilitated could've been soldier wearing stolen fatigues,
salutes only to his own anarchy,
he's never shot a gun bigger than his middle finger
where he could push the trigger with his thumb.
He's been here before,
in a place that no one is looking for,
in a town with no name I can remember his name
the same way he gave it up the first time.
He is a body made of paper cuts,
scratching out lines he can't breath in
like the snow that drips through his nose.
Like the cocaine rewrite of a long forgotten poem,
he lines slits in his writs to to apologize for doing too much.
He's never known his heart to stop beating,
but he likes how he forgets things when he flows.
He's got just as many bruises as the bridges he's burnt to keep himself warm.
Wipes his nose with scar tissue when he cries,
he is an experiment in compulsive excuses,
and he'll apologize if he ever bleeds on your t shirt.
But little boy,
the sky is not ready for you.
At least not yet.
Even though boys like us are still small,
not yet heavy enough to grow wings and fly,
it doesn't mean that you have to.
Bounce.
Bouncing boy,
bouncing bouncing prancing baby boy.
But bounce if you have to,
because wherever you are I will be here
picking up every paper cut you've left on your unfinished poems,
bleeding on to the pages of your tear inked diary.
You know as well as I do that this is not so much a metaphor
as much as it is a wish,
an apology,
a twisted bedtime story.
So take my hand.
Feel my pulse and know that something is still beating.
Press your ear up against my chest and hear a quiet song.
Close your eyes.
See an endless green sky
rolling over the hills so blue
that earth and the heavens wanna be like each other;
Hear the unlocking of our bones;
the click clacking clashing xylophone rhythm of two people
exchanging ribcages and holding hands.
Doesn't it sound beautiful?
Let me hold you in my chest.
Lay you down in my biggest chamber,
rock you with my breathing
and we'll synchronize our lungs
to dive into dreaming,
swim out of nightmares,
and rise to face the sun.
He's not ready for you.
Not today.

Like our own brat pack of misfit kids
we were brave enough to try what we didn't get to do yesterday or the day before.
Driving way to fast like where we were going had some other place to go,
we folded speeding tickets into paper planes and flew even faster.
We lived like superheroes
Going 60 on a 45,
not even a wild angry bullet could catch us.
Young and unafraid we were invincible.
We wore hoodies like armor,
t-shirts like chain mail,
cigarettes like swords,
we fought our way to the sunrise.
basked in the moonlight,
howled our loudest dreams,
and counted the stars.
These were the days of hopping the fence of a hotel
where they had just filled the pool
and driving around naked careful not to get the seats wet,
blasted music as if we were singing to a God we said we would never believe in
although he bailed us out of every kind of trouble we could ever get into.
We sang to our favorite rock songs
like the world would forget what songs had to say,
and it was our job to never let that happen.
We burnt our lives onto blank CD's,
and made mix tapes to hide our secrets.
Screaming to the top of our lungs,
we huddled in back seats,
kissed hard enough to break teeth in and make tongues scream
to get into each other like no one else could.
I remember,
when trees would climb us before we became to grown up to hug them back.
When we carved our names onto their bodies like it would make us last forever,
and that may have been true because until now something's been keeping us alive.
And until now we've been hiding in those places we've come to fear the most.
Convincing ourselves that we've left our old mistakes far enough behind,
forgetting the fact that had it not been for those indiscretions
we would not have each other like we do now.
Still young,
still unafraid,
still brave enough to fall knowing that some far gone memory will catch us,
lift us up,
and dial our fingers into a phone call that will last all night
and all we'd talk about would be what was.
What's so wrong about collecting old bones
with enough stories to fill us up through the night time.
We are still those same stupid kids
filled with enough courage
to be something more than what everyone else thought we were meant for,
driving way to fast like where we were going had some other place to go,
we folded speeding tickets into paper planes and flew even faster.
Just like the old days,
we are still
and always will be
invincible.

I'm watching ashes shine like gold. It's as if the sun is giving birth to new stars, like days living on Roman candles and cigarette smoke. It stings in a good way.

too much blood in my alcohol
lighters flank every angle
i've got enough cigarettes to last the next four hours
goodnight moon

the breeze carries ballads in the language of breathing
slow and steady, i'm learning the words so i can sing along

Above the horizon lie Nimbus clouds. Beyond those clouds is silver thread. And hanging from it is a bright red sun. Burning. It's something I'm not supposed to be able to touch, but by the gods I'm gonna die trying. Watch me.

my father's heart, my mother's spirit.
her eyes in his bones; my blood runs beating,
i'm here