Tuesday, August 2, 2011


©2007-2011 mykl g sivak.


Blue-collared lithium eater,
knife wearer, dropout
fifteen, only son.

comrade, enabled,
magician, corrupted-

fucked at thirteen,
smoking since seven.

Together we burned
shoplifted satanic bibles

would not burn because
of their dark magicks,

in woods between the
highway and suburbia,
atop the fort

we had made with our own
hands and borrowed fathers’

out of plywood and wood joists
we’d stolen

in the wild quiet summer night

from the site of the newly built
home my own parents would
soon buy

to move us from the brink
of the slums.

His father was not
his birth father,

my parents— unaware
their rearing had ceased—

as they all slept we wandered,

smoked whole packs of his
grandmother’s cigs in unfinished
abandoned houses, dirt ditches,
fake forests, in the night--

cool loose earth against thighs clad
with worn denim.

And really we were
our own fathers then.

Everything ours was stolen,
and in our heads we prayed
some types of invented
atheistic prayers

to clear the mark from
bookstore runes before
we cast them

to see if we would make it
to twenty or die, because
we were not good really
at raising ourselves.

But we did not die,
due to strange magic;

his antichristian cosmic

swaddled him within,

wrapped his spoiled

doomed him to continue on,
to stumble safe from each
snuck car collision;

every time his heart stopped
it did not stay stopped.

In summertime, late
nighttime we stood

beside the cattail-hidden
retention basin and stared
at the stars

in the hush of calling insects,
the highway’s meaningless

because there was nothing
else for us to do, anymore then,
near feral and fatherless—

because my parents
were wounded;

because his birth-father
had stumbled,

taken a small pillow and pressed it
down to cover his baby’s mouth
and nose until

his breathing had almost ceased,
when some thing stopped
the man

loosed his muscles.

And Isaac, blue and airless,
gasped but did not cry
and the man turned to exit
the dark nursery,

blessed the baby with his curse
and left him with the secret memory
of suffocation

So we might later meet to loose
or bind ourselves.

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