Oct. 7th

Repeatedly-
Jihad is forever.
It's just that we talk about it more
when it's worse
like the market or the weather.

And wanting little more
than to sleep beside her,
Heavy tries to come off
casual.

And growing tired,
and poor.
It's only a matter of time now,
isn't it, isn't it, isn't it?

I am so sorry Mother.

V is for Victory
she smiled.
And became the new
standard of acceptance
by which Heavy would
(and this, this is true)
start holding himself against.
Pressing him self upon,
consume.

The picture doesnt look right,
so we hit the TV harder.

April 25th

Baby powder,
it smells of baby powder in the bed.
And a strand of cotton candied hair
polar on a black pillowcase.
And it seems things are better
if not at least restarting.
Triceps, softening.
Stomach sore.
And a constant fear
of knees soon to come undone.
May might bring more
than a few nights folly.

April 17th

Laid down in bed,
the sheets (do to their utter lack
of movement in the day)
are seventy four degrees.
The waffle of the blanket.
Calf quaking. Trembling.
Exhaustion.

And
once inside, realizing
she may,
tho will never allow herself to again.

And
That all things are meant to be taken
at face value.

Dripping, and cold, Heavy's nose
is slipping away, (again)
into daydreams, coffee pots,
cigarette exhalations.
And his septum is caked
in an attempt to heal,
that he removes
forcefully.

And making enough (enough)
to keep fed, and housed,
Heavy goes to a toy shop.
The roses are long dead,
and Heavy has no interest in
the women on the bar stools.
One always gets away.

Unfolding a soft periwinkle bandanna,
Heavy looks down upon his profits.
And the boys not right.
And his lips (again) crack and bleed,
teaching his face to remain still,
and red as clay from the creek bed.