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Title: None
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG

Even my baby sister
pushes her face into
sheets and pillows
to loose her breath

and she would sink,
would slip
underneath water
if I did not hold her up

Even my cheery mother
with her smiles and bright eyes
speaks mostly of sorrows
and stillborns

Even my glutton step-brother
sits back, silent
eating in closets
and watching tv like a silent film

But standing
in front
of my grandmothers house, weeping
and skipping meals

places me in weak
sagging arms
speeding toward hospital beds

Title: Funeral Time (like Pizza Time! I don't have a title, I suck at them)
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG

After putting him under a stone
they threw cream-filled cakes down their throats,
quoted insightful writers, hugged, patted
and told
of times when they spoke a different language
or no language at all--

When they fell--
as low as the baby in the ground but
managed to rise up, a new angel
and spread loving wings with fairy dust
of hope and joy, placing crowns on the poor
and on themselves

"How Generous!" I exclaimed,
as one crept from behind with a crown
fitted perfectly, just for me
and hammered it down
placing me a little more below them
with my feet cracking the ground
and sticking

I wore a smile and laughing eyes
unwillingly,
like my crown with it's
red jewels
and gold rim, sparkling.

Title: "Yes, Lord"
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG


You are drunken, crying--
Held to the ground beside a picnic pavilion
filled with the presence of God
and they all feel it,
tingling spines and
raising hands.
"Yes, Lord, Yes, Lord, Yes, Yes, Lord!"

You are red-eyed and face down--
screaming indecencies
and stretching for the music
held to the ground beside a chapel
filled with little bags of gold
and balls of pain
And they feel it leaving you, leaving you
"Yes, Lord, Yes, Lord, Yes, Yes, Lord."

You are empty and pouring like the rain--
Walking through grass and grass,
looking for shoes and falling down bawling
A big ball of pain--given to Shane--given to Jesus

You are unreliable, overdone--
Lying in bed, sitting in a chair
gripping books of houses of leaves
Singing to hear your voice over

children, with nails stuck in their sides
Shouting, "No, No Mother! Mother, Mother!"
Holding yellow toys like bibles and praying
for a release

You are falling, falling out of step--
telling secrets and making promises

You are funny, truthful Kate
saying "Hate, hate, hate"

You are calm, unaware--
sitting in cars and staring
at windows

You are skeptical, lying--
with your head, in your mothers lap
mapping plans as she strokes your hair and calls you
poor baby.
Current Mood:
sad sad
Current Music:
Ben Folds Five-Don't Change Your Plans
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