Rorschach

In 1985, my crush on Whitney Houston
helped me through latchkey benders
of cool whip & sauerkraut

I execute wasted motion by lethal injection
A crowded beach obscures beauty the way
clutter slows my wifi connection to God

Men wield insecurity like damascene blades
A broken guitar string can be used as a tourniquet
Life is a windshield, a bearing wall, a first aid

kit, a colonnade scorched by an ancient sun
no one has forgiven
I am aware my use of time is unsustainable

Sometimes I write in Arabic or Cuneiform
or Sanskrit only it is none of these
A thousand hungry trout swirl in hatchery shallows like revenge

In 1967, my mother typed my father’s poems instead of her own
If we shake hands, it means I’ve not yet found a way to love you
I would have been a willing tourniquet for Whitney Houston

In 1989, my father died in a wheelchair
in a hospital lounge, having never
learned to make me talk

Some damascene blades hang
over dinner tables, unsheathed
When I talk to my younger

son, I am a broken
guitar string—nothing
is guaranteed but wasted motion