but they are not quite enough

in the event of a fire leave

father’s bones

cuts of flesh

to scatter with the ash

do not pick up pieces

*

a father is a vessel in which

the child is consumed and regurgitated

with mustard

thank you mother

oh thank you

for the unleashing and lashing

we needed the whipping

to put him in his place

for breaching a brood

of angry offspring

for not letting father keep us

hungry

in the dark

*

upon waking

father finds us

tearing

what little remains of him

gift them to earth mother

to sow in her green green fields

a reckoning

he prophesied his fear

in the bitter clippings

of father sky

and father time

only to turn

right into the stump grinder

girded by his sons

*

now

he gets he no he nothing

PErsonal myth: atlas

an atlas is a map, is a man.

punishment is to push apart the worlds,

cleave them in two with a set of palms––

shoulders raised,

feet anchored.

sky and soil one atlas-length

away from the other.

i could carry the weight

of a thousand suns

and still never be worthy.

the burden of the universe

pressing down,

begging to be touched––

and still i tremble.

atlas carries myths and maps

in his hands, in the bracing

of one sin from another––

a force of responsibility

far heavier than the heavens.

i will hold sin here,

apart from myself and myself

so i can admire it as so many holy objects

behind the cloisters of my mind.

here, i invoke religion,

the marriage of myth and man.

after the results of my transgressions

have arrived, the sky and earth will touch––

sin to a lonely titan

at the top of the world.

press me down with the guilt

of all i have done

and will never be enough for––

mine is a different sky,

a slanted weight.

atlas presses away the kiss

of another failed coming-together.

i will have moved on,

another atlas in my palms.