Fuck my life.

Two days ago my brother came over to see my mother. Conversation topics were the usual. Law suits, business is bad, there is no money. As he listed off the stores he was closing, he mentioned 13 and 3rd, my dad's original store, the one opened since the Sixties. This caught my attention and I asked what he planned to do with the original sign and if we could keep it. He said no, it would cost him money to take it down and not that it mattered anyway because the original sign was no longer there.

Odd I thought since I had just passed by the store the other day and saw the old sign still there like it's always been. To this he replied by saying that this wasn't the original sign. The original sign had been destroyed in a hurricane and he hired a sign painter to restore it two years ago. Well that doesn't make any sense I said. Why would you go through all the trouble of restoring a sign and not keep it in the end, to which he replied, if you were a man I'd kick the shit out of you, you fucking dirty cunt.

My father has been dead almost six years but he is still felt. I have him to blame for never having a brother.

It's taken me my entire life to believe I'm good at something. Maybe if I hadn't felt the need to run away from my family when I was younger, I'd be employable.

I'm not employable. My resume is a fucking joke.

I'm drinking wine left over from Christmas Eve. It was my mother's name day and she threw a party. Despite the heaviness of being sad with it all, she still knows how to cook a baby lamb so tender it should have it's own passage in the Bible.

Old Testament.  Something about sacrifice and slaughter.

Sweet meat and sins of the father.

work on something
anything
beyond physical therapy and csa shares
work on something hard
for no one else
more than ebay and happy hour
for a reason bigger than poker
revenge fantasies and underdog
nocturnal emissions
work on something hard
for no one
but the shadow I cast

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Sign painting

Unless you are going to a funeral, please don't pick the flowers. 

Old skin, new ceremonies.

Now that you are
my most secret confidante
I will write to you in code. 

Bowie

Five Years

Pushing thru the market 

square

so many mothers sighing

News had just come over, 

we had five years left to cry in

News guy wept and told us 

earth was really dying

Cried so much his face was wet

then I knew he was not lying

I heard telephones, opera house, favourite melodies

I saw boys, toys electric irons and T.V.'s

My brain hurt like a warehouse

it had no room to spare

I had to cram so many things 

to store everything in there

And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people

And all the nobody people, and all the somebody people

I never thought I'd need so many people

A girl my age went off her head

hit some tiny children

If the black hadn't a-pulled her off, I think she would have killed them

A soldier with a broken arm, fixed his stare to the wheel of a Cadillac

A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest

and a queer threw up at the sight of that

I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlour

drinking milk shakes cold and long

Smiling and waving and looking so fine

don't think you knew you were in this song

And it was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor

And I thought of Ma and I wanted to get back there

Your face, your race, the way that you talk

I kiss you, you're beautiful, I want you to walk

We've got five years, stuck on my eyes

We've got five years, what a surprise

We've got five years, my brain hurts a lot

We've got five years, that's all we've got