like a pothole on pain st.
reduced to bone jarring blows
to get my point across
falling as the last leaf of autumn does
into the corpses of my fellows,
I am the Mother of suicide.
and the Father of unquenched desire.

as a child,clinging to the overhead bars and waiting,
waiting until my fingers slip
watching
with detached curiosity,
is the rest of the playground,
the whole damn world.

hope died yesterday
i felt her pulse fade
into the margins of
a novel by albert camus

\"a saint without god\"
i wish i could be.
i could be.
i could be free.

waking to dreamscape
in the rocking afternoon
looking for a reason to walk again
finding none, walk anyway

The school is made from sandstone
and crumbles when it rains
leaving only muddied desks and
the dedicated weather vane

shotguns answer questions while
politicians promise their own safety
trading truth for narcissism
and blood for broken ground

my ignorance is bulletproof
i cannot see the future
the future can\'t see me

I am america.
I could be.
I could be free.