We Called Him the Head of the House

your body lies rotting beneath the ground
beneath my feet so i doubt these questions count

like why you held your money so tight
looking at us as if we were loons
asking for help and not your family in need

and why you told grandma to shut up that time
revealing your fangs, the meat dangling from your teeth
i, capturing the image so many times hidden from me

who did you love more, papa?
us or the antique cars?
us or the family on the side?
us or the money in your deep deep pockets?
no one questioned the head of the house
how well the blindfolds worked
you so kindly handed out

after the fuss
after my eyes were dried
after i stopped trying to miss you, papa
all i could do was hate you
i got your last glass of water with gritting teeth
and crumpled hands, my heart turning its back on you

however, i must say thanks
for teaching me the blues
seeing men coated in dark hues
the psychological blueprint on the waves
of my brain

papa
i have to know what rights
you thought you had
to keep us tongue tied and doing
it with the grace of a snake
speaking georgia lullabies to keep the mice still
crown royal breath to paralyze until the strike

let go
to fully heal
let go
in order to forgive
so on your grave i stand, lifting my head
to God and all his heavenly hosts
praying for peace
begging for deliverance

an apparition
could this be the trick of
Friday night sleep deprived mind?
maybe, but you remind me too much of someone
i once knew at a time i knew not myself

an apparition
of a guy
darker hair but same dark eyes
i prided myself on knowing well
and i could talk to him easily
killing time with a few thoughts plaguing my mind
it doesn't surprise me that i treat you the same

between spewing indie band names
and laughing at sibling slavery
i make a soul decision to be your sidekick
because i believe you could fight crime if you wanted to
i could be your GPS to places of new experiences
ideas lost along the flight through buildings

laugh at this
but there's a connection
my thread to yours
creating a curvacious line through time
these eight hours of loathing labor
passes with the reading of Tote Predictions
if it were up to me i'd be speaking with violins
while you give me beats on the snare and bass

there's a crack in time that i cannot repair
but you seem to give me a chance to love what could have been:
the wallflower leaning toward the superhero
whispering a tune or two of secret songs like lost kids
under the steps of a slide

we are not the normal
we are not the common
and because of that
i want to hold your hand
and tell you everything

You Must Be Stupid, I Think You Are Stupid When it Comes to This

all i can see is darkness in my rearview
the side mirrors are no help because shadows they're darkened too
at some point in between your dissonant chord tones i tuned out
and tuned into my own
there's always a record playing even when the needle is pulled
like a good lonely girl i sung myself to sleep
pushing down the rage that tasted like a bile sea
you carry on carry on carry on
free yourself from the words you held onto
while i just kept mine
being polite
being scolded
being stupid

I Feel Alive When Yelled At

clearly
something within me
likes being the dog
sitting in a puddle of her own piss
waiting for the smack across the face
waiting for the kick in the ass
waiting to be dragged outside into the dirt
and shown what big dogs are supposed to do