Rorschach

In 1985, my crush on Whitney Houstonhelped me through latchkey bendersof cool whip & sauerkraut

I execute wasted motion by lethal injectionA crowded beach obscures beauty the wayclutter slows my wifi connection to God

Men wield insecurity like damascene bladesA broken guitar string can be used as a tourniquetLife is a windshield, a bearing wall, a first aid

kit, a colonnade scorched by an ancient sunno one has forgivenI am aware my use of time is unsustainable

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

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

In 1989, my father died in a wheelchairin a hospital lounge, having neverlearned to make me talk

Some damascene blades hangover dinner tables, unsheathedWhen I talk to my younger

son, I am a brokenguitar string—nothingis guaranteed but wasted motion