revised poem

My Sister, The Woodchipper

When you were lit
We did bad shit

Before they chased us
Back to the Emporium.

The clouds convulsed
As we puked pink
Through makeshift subdivisions.

She told me to stop staring
And pass her the Hydromorphone.

Later, alone
By the lockers,
I remembered myself two years
Younger, my ear hissing

Against the gameroom entrance,
And you calling through
The scramble of

Infernal engines,
Still young, grazing your
Tongue over gacked gums

While I lay in the trunk
Waiting for you to loosen
The shoelace around my neck.

new (revised) poem

Elegy For Lorna

September,
you slumped over

the air-conditioner,
under the weather,

your mirror
riddled with hairline

fractures,
a cleft reflection

of your
pierced face,

I tried to scoot you
sideways,

away from the balcony,
cornered in

a labyrinthine factory
of porn and taffy,

all I did
that year was chew candy

and mutilate
my froggish body,

pissing red,
you said you were sorry

before I carried you
to the reaper's lobby,

so squirrelly
on your mother's Campari.

new (revised) poem

To a Mirror In Grade School

how did you become so talkative?
when I first met you
some Sophomore
urinated all over your chubby face.

since then,
you've lifted
many heavy
weights,
but the unchanged
heart of a poltergeist
still waits for you
at home

Revised older poem

Memory Of Mary Magdalene

I met you for the first time at Laura's House
after you swallowed every pill in the bag and fell
off the balcony. Someone in the room called you
one crazy mother and they were right.

Outside the Emporium I would wait outside
as you drove by everyday,
leaving my stomach fishy for reasons
only my pecker could answer to.

I heard a rumor 
you had your 
clit pierced when 
you were fifteen. 

No one knows how old you are,
but the whole school still wants to fuck you.

You must take great care of your body.

Not like me,
today my diet consisted of six scotches
and half a bag of Animal Crackers,
which I stopped eating 
after I thought I heard one of them scream for its life. 

What kind of life is it to be trapped in a 
bag all of the time? I guess it's no different than my life, 
or yours, even. You, more than anyone, should know that
we are all breakable little animals, waiting
to be devoured completely.

Mary, I wish you 
would drive past me.

Bludgeon me
while I'm sleeping,
dreaming of your 
wild brown hair

Old revised poem

Justin's Story About Some Lady

so we leave Kevin's
and I'm way too ripped
on something I can't even pronounce
and so is Jason and Jason's driving
and I think maybe he shouldn't be
but we made it to Tracy's
without dying so yeah
on the way there
I saw this woman banging
her head over and over
against a telephone pole
and her face was bleeding
like crazy but
I stayed silent and Jason
kept driving and five minutes
later we were at Tracy's
and I'd forgotten
the woman
and her fucked up face entirely