Coming to Know Me

I cherish and keep rushing thoughts as if they were diaries.

Trying to live my whole life by tomorrow

while

hoping for an eternity of love to fall through my tainted hands.

I want to know what normal feels like.

Everyone tells me its great.

To know what a million dollars feels like

because it’s a manner of speech and Momma always told me

to have good manners

and to be honest.

But my normal is budgeting tattoos and poetry books

into my minimum wage job.

Along with cannabis, kind words, and duct tape because I know

those are the only things that keep love alive.

I know that when I'm old,

the only arthritic bone in my body will be my middle finger.

It’s nice enough to say,

"Hey, I love you but you need to grow up."

I first saw God that night I squeezed the moon like a lime,

but I was ten years early and too poor to buy tequila.

So we put sugar on the rims of mountain dew margaritas

because even now, salt doesn't make a lot of sense to me.

I saw Him again that one northern Ohio winter.

It was almost cold enough for me to stop smoking.

I was harboring hate like the Titanic and ramming it into

my iceberg heart.

He said to me, "Hey, I love you but you need to grow up."

Then he lit a hurricane.

The rain couldn't stop me from stealing sidewalk chalk.

I loved the blue powder it left on my fingers,

like dehydrated raindrops.

I precipitated hopscotch squares too long to travel,

promising at the end that I would find Jesus.

Those long drives home to my clumsy pup and humble saint mother

taught me that there are things worth fighting for.

And things to fight,

like those chalk tears,

creating endless streams of sanctity.

I do this for her

because even when it hurts to hear,

she knows I speak with the blunt conviction of love.

And even after discovering the dead bodies of

adolescent rebellion in my room,

she loves this fuck-up.

So thanks for the manners because they drive girls crazy

and thanks for the truth.

It makes my words worth something