• I refuse to do a poem about weed
    it's too damn easy for me
    Nor will I do a poem about Hitler,
    or Columbine
    I will tell you a little story of mine
    about a house amidst Oak trees
    at the end of a cul-de-sac
    This is the home of a boy
    whose childhood is already stained with heartache
    the boy who was told that his dad is dead
    and he said "Who was he?"
    And went back to his Leggos
    Happy with an excuse to be left alone
    This house will always be that boys home
    This is the home of a boy that cracked his skull at age two
    and of a boy that heard voices
    and saw ghosts
    This house was homebase
    to God knows how many games of hide-and-seek
    and it was where a four year old first learned of his facination with flame
    when he threw paper into the fireplace
    It was the home of a loving family for a hateful little b*****d
    The pool in back was where he and his secret crush swam
    for hours on end until their skin was wrinkled and their hair was bleached
    and her latina skin was a shade darker from the sun
    This was where he dragged his knucles against the coarse pavement until they bled
    this was where he had his first kiss
    and where he drove a sowing needle through his palm
    In the hot tub was where he got his first real assault from the sun
    that left his skin raw and crimson
    This is where that manic little brat climbed the giant oak tree and jumped
    This is where he carved his name into the playset,
    wanting to be remembered forever, at the age of five
    Upstairs, third door on the right
    was where he sat and cried for an eternity when his best friend left
    and the last door on the left was where he tossed and turned
    from a constant plague of nightmares involving rape scenes and warfields
    Downstairs, master bedroom was where he slept when he got the chicken pox,
    and where he cultivated his first real fear of Catholicism
    The stairs he fell down more times than he can count
    was where he held his first pet for the last time
    before they took her to be euthanized
    And now sitting outside of that house is that boy
    in his rusted red Jeep
    wondering if the new family has ever seen a remaining speck of his blood
    or heard the echo of his screeching
    or smelled his searing flesh
    or tasted the air he breathed
    or felt his ghostly companions
    from a childhood stained with heatache