clinical

a glimpse of ancient soured skin beneath
a top button undone.
flesh jutting, hanging, making shapes
i've seen on bakery shelves.
spots cut through with furrowed
streaks like modern art.
youth crawls but age slides like
jellyfish in the bottom of a pail.
and me? don't worry.
me, i'm clinical.

i went to a thrice concert last night

my hair hangs off my head in ribbons
my arms vibrate
constrained in steel mesh that i rage to rip down
rallying cries shoot me up and seal over
the cracks in the small of my back
my lungs will not be lanced
they fill and fill but not fast enough
as if someone was stomping my chest in
so they empty in this rallying cry
and our fists pierce the air like soundwaves

IN SUM: next time dustin kensrue comes up and shreds three feet from your face, i dare you not to go ballistic.

i have a family history of:

stolen typewriters
falling in with the wrong crowd
alcoholic fathers with mangled ears
alcoholic fathers who love their kids to death
and sleep next to denial (her name is joy)
politicking
chauvinism
"i'm just saying."

anyone want to tell me how i seem to have ended up the most well-balanced one here?