where all the pretty roses grow


my mother said i look bad



i told her i have been dreaming

about my death since i was

8 years old



you know, the usual conversation

in a bathroom as you are helping

your mother pull up her adult

diaper



these are the nights i would love

to take an empty bottle of scotch

and see how many cuts it would

take to get to my tootsie roll



and no, suicide isn’t first on

my list



i figure it won’t be something

planned or poetic



like taking a dump



or inside a hooker



probably a random front porch,

a bottle of something too strong

for my age and a nap becomes

the final siesta



just cremate the body



and spread the ashes

somewhere, next to a pile

of shit

——————————————————
circles around my soul


write through the darkness



the endless cries for help



the myth of love



a friendship that died long

before it should have



you had the taste of a woman

that could dance circles

around my soul



we laughed at the oddest shit



fought over nothing, but i

warned you about my ability

to burn a bridge and never

come back



of course, that stubborn bullshit

has cost me best friends, a few

lovers and arguably one of the

greatest female poets to bleed

on the page



cancer will kill us all



hope the ride was worth

every moment of pain



still remember one long sunset

and what could have been on a

porch somewhere in ohio



hard to believe you escaped

this hell first