adult psychopatholigy

I once had a teacher who told me
that once he had become a father
he realized two things.

The first was that, you should always
buy two of each stuffed animal
you give to your children.
Just in case, the stuffed animal becomes
a beloved friend and they discontinue
the toy and your child loses their toy
and you go down as the worst father.
In history.

Secondly, he said that there are two kind of tantrums.
Those bred from frustration and anger,
and those which stem from wanting to issue a
challenge.

One of the most important things, he told me,
was learning to distinguish between these two
tantrums.

I'm still learning.

Popsicle

Quench wet crackle of flip
flops on linoleum tiles,
strung like crooked teeth. Kissing
enamel whispering stories of
the late night grind.

A popsicle stick gifts splinters
like a supplicants prayers, lodged
long and deep; one for every
drop of cherry sweet that
passed my lips.

In the locker room, I watch
as water rivers from my face onto pebbled
floors, pinching fish belly
thighs, searching for diamonds
in the sand.

We fought on the day before he died.

There Were Feathers Everywhere

There and here children
were scattered, broken blown like
feathers, air-twisting dandelion hair
everywhere, Saturn rings caught
stuck shut on chubby fingers
in love with long blades of slick grass.

Lovers slept in silent slings
clenched hard fast cold over
fists; streetlights line alleys like
toy sentinels, stand proud straight-
baby doll eyes staring from beneath long
lashes.

Flutter flung pale forearms bent
open crooked cruel, mud creased nails
bite smiles into invisible hands
down rabbut holes, where I found her-
hard eyes blinking shutter fast.

Workshop

Lolling tongues lick spittle from
berry bright lips stretched wet
slick to bear white cracked teeth
housed side by side like surburban
doors.

Her shoulders shift like minnows.
Flash quick bright- golden pale in
the flourescent lights and I
find myself connecting her freckles
into constellations on her neck.

Elephant Graveyard

Two asphalt scuffs on rubber soles
trip tread into the black
top cracks of swing slides
swooping hard and fast

Straight shot to hop
scotch muddy knees
bent and bruised with battle
scars from reigning knights
drip drop wet splatter fist fights

Hair split tugged tossed in pig-
pony tales caught in pinch
poke fingers holding jump
rope bangle-edged glitter hoops

Pop split splat.

Broken Lines

On Thursday I dreamt
I had broken my
fist against your face
painted harlequin masks
that hung in fun
house mirror twisted
glory chains on our
stucco white-washed
walls

It was two days ago after
noon when you
had barged
through the metal mesh
screen door,
cursing red-yellow-blue
streaks that hung like
steam clouds in your
wake

Sunday morning
crosswords carpet kitchen
tiles, hatch-marked Tony
Award winners and
the coloquial name
for axilla coat
the hop-scotch
cracks

The night before this morning you shot
down your search light eyes,
rimmed your mouth in concrete,
and opened up a wind tunnel in your throat.