My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.

The countless folds of thick dark curtains
Cogently conceals what's hidden beneath
A tempest of emotions wreaking havoc
Arousing chaotic commotion
Debilitating me
Some buried
Some hovering ominously
Raucous silence
Exhausting my insides
My resilience wavering
As I struggle to stay afloat
My numb fingers beckoning you
to save me
Before I become
A broken shard of memory

all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor

a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened

I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced

perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made

perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased

there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth


Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,

3/13/18
1:09am

I walked upon
an empty grave
gravely sobbing
of lost hopes
hoping to throw its ghost against
the people
they ran, knowing nothing but the status quo
angry with themselves
suffering in denial.
suffering in a gas station parking lot, I
am waiting to hit the floor
wating for,
wait, what am I waiting for?
the silence to be filled back with people, even though
there is a constant fear of people
I'd rather be in fear than be alone
with nothing but a cigarette and heartache
I felt drowned out by the rain
but don't be mistaken
the rain falls from my eyes hitting the ground
so loud
that silence goes quiet
and there is nothing
but city lights
and the air
and all the people
and everything else there was before

I jogged 6 miles to defend the sewage-treatment plant from ******
attack, with 5 ****-launchers & ***-sprayers to keep the plant intact

I don't understand myself, nor love myself.
I'm stuck, trapped with a person I can't stand.
I guess that's adult life,
accepting your own misery,
citizens of this wasteland.