Side by side with grace, I swing my golf club.
Green golf course sharply cut.
We both have the same goal.
One hit wonders are we.
Each dandelion is poisoned in order to keep the cheek bones trimmed.
Pain sits on the swing of my soul.
A child smiles peering downward at damp grass.
Dew drips coldly on my prepubescent heart.
Back and forth. Back. And forth.
He moans of happiness and sings of daisies gone bleak.
Not knowing his eyes are blue. Downward thumping, beating the meat harder.
That valve deep in the birdy’s chest is rusty now, and the knife left out in the rain is rubbery.
I want the creak in the swing to stop sticking, to stop mocking itself as it slips.
The flowing of the moisture,
prickly blue gills swimming in guilt.
Steak knife, curled fist.
Hanging from a pointy curved tip.
Arm extended, flexed swift.
Quivering peach pit.
Wings of monarchs flitter softly on my harp strings,
Jump. Land. Two feet. Run.
Away from something.
Placed back into –
Water. Fresh water. A fresh glass of water please.
Half full or half empty. Water.
Just some water please.
I remove the baby from the bathwater gently,
taking my tongue to lick the iron from my blood.
The sweat from the sagging testicles drip. Salt deposits find a place to fit.
It tastes like apples,
thick and dry,
like the crust of a pie, sweetness softens the tears of a knife wound.
It get’s shit done.
Sugar takes Grandma’s wheelchair away from her
freshly baked cookies,
gone gray in the bottom of the milk—
Moo cow, moo
Mooing like a cow in heat.
I am terribly satisfied
with soggy textures, lumpy toads,
and chocolate chips.
Ooey, gooey goodness.
Honey in my bunny.
Yellow urine runs away from her bladder when she is scared.
back to safety
back home, landing in my mouth
heading to the deep south
the youthful semen tail squiggles in the unfolded laundry
in the wind
misting in the bearded wave
I dare to grow up,
hanging myself by pinching my nipples with clothespins.
I know cliché.
Tying the wet towels to the line.
Waiting for the fall leaves to dry the cloth.
A tall ladder reaches the light bulb but no one is standing.
nothing to grasp,
nothing to hang onto,
just clippings and crumpled leaves
Picking again, falling again, scraping their knees.
Blood becomes crunchy, crusting up and over.
Grandpa picks at the burnt chicken skin.
He grips it in his teeth and tugs.
Grandma in the bathroom she –
When men eat burnt chicken proudly,
emotions meet the cold meat spatula.
The spatula that baked the cookies yesterday, and spanks a baby tomorrow.
Grandpa goes ‘nom nom nom’
like a chicken goes ‘cluck cluck.’
No fear, picking their nose with the thorn of a rose,
cutting the flowers off their head.
never wearing a helmet
gnawing, cracking a tooth wide open
spreading the peanut butter gracefully
The C in cookie sounds a lot like casket, which reminds me of the sound “cock” as in, “cock-a-doodle-doo.”
Dear angel, grandma’s wings,
delivery of the repentance cookies.
Licking lollipops. Yes, oh yes.
Forgive me for being so young.
Will you miss me?
What is missing from ock, ookie, asket?
Ask it. The letter C.
Sea, see, I showed you!
Prove it, show your work.
This is hardly working out for me.
Floppy fish, dangling, limp wrist.
Unfolding the condemnation like a diaper from a stinky butt.
I gave you a meatball made of mud,
heart of my gift.
You’ve returned there, raged –
Burning fire rage, raging boner
rage on till the charcoal refuses to light.
Rage!! Puffing a cigar.
Suck. Sucking at life.
Pooping harder, stronger, faster, larger.
Harder, it’s getting harder, blowing up a balloon, letting it rise to heaven, blowing the trumpet, hitting high C, nailing in every cancer of the mouth.
Bang me with a hammer til the casket is covered in rose petals.
A directive, an action, being told what to do.
Back and forth, memories fade perpetually. Lord, are you in heaven?
Is that where the smoke goes?
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A poem that explores the affect of suicide on a surviving child. How does a child cope with the death of one's parent when they are young? The answer is they don't, it is put off and isn't considered a loss at all until later in adulthood. Thus the mourning process is delayed. This single poem is Forrester's look at his father's early death as well as what it means to grow up gay without a father present. It challenges western dichotomies of gender while simultaneously relying upon Freudian psychoanalytic ideas to produce meaning. Themes include growing up gay, rural lifestyle, suicide, nature, and sexual orientation.