In my twelve year old hand is a length of pipe
that I took from a corner of my dank cellar
that I’m swinging like a sword in my backyard
that whistles as it flies
I wish it was connecting with someone’s head
I wish it was cracking someone’s skull
I wish it was making a sick impact
I wish it was hurting Him
who needs His head cracked
who needs pain returned to Him
who dealt me some pain
who passed on too much of His own
Be glad I am twelve in this vision
Be glad I never took that pipe to His head
Be glad I’m old and held that murder inside me
Be glad I kept the fractures to myself
as I am glad that I am the last broken one
as I am glad that I did not become a breaker
as I am glad that I am alone in these later years
as I am glad to be without an heir
Dark Matter 
May 31st, 2015 at 4:56 pm
your heirs are your readers………….we are blessed by the way you transform your pain.
May 31st, 2015 at 4:53 pm
Charlotte’s right….the repetition is effective….as usual, you literally pull us inside the experience.
What an achievement to not pass the violence on.
Your music and your poetry are your grace.
What a gift to create instead of just react.
June 1st, 2015 at 10:03 am
Just a point…the poem ins’t strictly autobiographical. Very few of my poems are.
May 31st, 2015 at 3:52 am
love the repetition – a cycle of words and feeling without being ‘confessional’ – you have such great technique!
May 31st, 2015 at 7:53 am
Thank you for that. It is much appreciated.