“You know my starter won't start this mornin'

Somethin' must be wrong with my little machine

Mechanic say ’Your car's all right like

You just been burnin' bad gasoline’”

Still singing with

so much folk

not enough elevation

unless your throat swallows —

No, no

write a different poem

write something with

more substance ABUSE.

Your father is a football player

with broken teeth.

He just crack blocked you

into the family van aiming at your throat.

Don’t write him with CTE.

Don’t make him sympathetic.

Don’t tell them both of you are learning

to walk again after you broke his back.

No hemoglobin crosses worth praise here.

All great writers sing into a shotgun —

Here’s what you’ll do:

you stand in a room full of cotton balls

pop open another friend and pop one

of their problems, blame yourself.

You’re the sick one remember?

Keep doing that so everyone hears

your suicide set in

Start playing a saxophone.

Hacking the notes away with a cough,

your cancer breaks the rhythm.

Trust me.

Your sickness knows

how to cut the right lines.

Don’t say there’s a light that’s cliché.

Don’t tell them your friends can save you.

Don’t tell them writing wakes you up

like Tejano for cleaning on Sunday.

DON’T TELL THEM ABOUT THE CHILD IN YOUR REFLECTION

YOU’RE AWFUL REMEMBER?

YOU GOT TO BE LIKE YOUR FATHER REMEMBER?

NEED TO LOVE THEM WITH YOUR FIST KISS THEIR JAWLINE

DON’T OPEN YOUR MOUTH.  REND THAT TONGUE.

PLAY THEM A GOODBYE NOTE. GOOD BOY.

DON’T TELL THEM

DON’T TELL THEM

DON’T TELL THEM THAT—

STOP CUTTING MY LINES!

Okay: so here’s how it really plays:

Your father gives you a piece of amethyst

as big as your six-year-old fist,

It was his and he calls it his heart

he’s cheesy like that.

You pick it up thirteen years later,

fracture it, and find yourself

lost in a purple haze.

He picks you up from rehab and takes you

to where nana’s radio pours out

“Me Quieres Tu Y Te Quiero Yo & Lindo Regalo”

into Pawpaw’s coffee cup.

Your friends become charcoal and saline

pumping out the narcotics, replacing them with tears

you regurgitate your half chewed words onto their shoes:

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

"We know, drink this."

Pour you a cup of coffee

they compliment your long sleeve

and say purple is your color.

It says hurt, but still here.

You pick up your guitar, change the tune

and you try to Jimi Hendrix

the voice out of your head.