My father says he has no son
who would run from a fight,
no bastard here without,
at least, my iron heart in him.
He doesn't know me. Born
with no wrist bone, my punches
are as useless as chunks
of meat ramming hard
against the charcuterie's knife.
In my stubbornness,
I have hurt the bright red world
inside of me, more than I
have hurt the world. My fingers,
folded as a fist, are only good
around microphones
in programs where I tell the story
of my loss over and over
to a bleeding audience.
Stand back and answer this,
faithful folks: Who here
has made a whorehouse
of their pain? Who here has made
the pomegranate jealous
at how much red he can make?
I know what I'm capable of. Once,
I sang and a bird died with the joy
that its grief will never know mine.
In a motivational speech at a school
for people likely to graduate
into failures, I told the story of
my life, and they sat crying, in wait
for the good ending. But there
is none. I ruin hearts for a living.
I take the heartstrings of kings
who have known nothing other
than joy, and fold it warped
around my hand.   In return,
they thank me for my service
which is nothing worthy of thanks.
When my father said he had no
son who would run from a fight,
he didn't specify which fight.
I have been at loggerheads
with the world, long before I lived.
There is no love that can save me,
save the love of country and bone.
Like a patient dog, I lie in wait
for the fattest love I can get, the world
moving around me its teeth and tail.
Sorry to be vulgar, but this world
with live coal for eyes,
half the time I have no idea
if it wants to fuck me or fuck me up.