From my stoop, you’re the rising sun. Dried semen on my stomach, I’m an unloaded gun. And I can swim with the best of them but I wake up like a little kid: crawling ‘round the sandbox, crying in my vomit for my mom. I need her songs. MacKaye saves lives, so does marijuana sometimes. They both saved mine when I fell on black nights. But now I can’t find the light.
Grace, you paint my face like Aldi wine. I stay up all night and smoke gets in my eyes.
High on amphetamines, riding snakes to hell on mescaline. I said I’d never disappear, child, but I’ve been killing everything that ever made you smile.
All of the flowers that you planted, mama, in the backyard, might’ve died and gone away, but they’ll come again another day.