Where Were You (REVISED)

The lights burned out long ago, she said
But it's alright.
We've got some candles and a little red wine.
You'd never question my integrity,
Though I'm certainly a fool
For you.

It would've been so nice
If we had met when I was seventeen,
My eyes were full of wild.
I was thin and I would grin
At every girl who passed me by.
I would've made a scene
Just to get you to notice me.

The pain died down long ago, I know
But it lingers,
Just like my hand against your waist
As you breathe slowly in and out.
I'd never question your divinity
I am faithfully yours.

Slam Poem

Jesus Christ is Not President

Graffiti buildings:
God is love
Children picket:
God hates fags
Apartheid 2.0
Beck, Romney, Bunning, Bahner
Blood on your hands
Vaccine poison, ban on stem cells, lazy unemployed
A new red scare
Santorum, Hannity, Palin, King
Blood on your hands
Death panels, reverse racism, close the border
A nation still wetting the bed
Playing with imaginary friends

Jesus Christ is not President

Placard on the American Dream:
Bigots only
Tolerance causes earthquakes
Healthcare conspiracy
O'Reilly, Delay, Coulter, Limbaugh
Blood on your hands
Fear like a virus
Filibuster on reason
Birthers, Blackwater, Teabaggers, Vatican City
Blood on your hands
No condoms for Africa
Empathy a dirty word
A nation standing on the porch with a shotgun
Take aim at the rescue planes

Jesus Christ is not President

Thoughts from the Road Ike Built (REVISED)

My brain tries to escape my eye sockets.
I’ve driven this road for hours, days, decades.

I was born out here,
between the orange pylons and overpasses.

On the road, it seems, you're always almost home.
Headlights are a skyline of a lonely city.

Think I’ll stop counting the miles now, think I’ll sing,
If this five hundred mile migraine ever subsides.

Collins Poem #1

Crafting

The poem rattles me awake
in the small hours of the night,
an insistent pang in my ribs
and behind my lungs.

It presses against my temples
and tries to bleed out through pores too small.
The poem knows not of physical law,
and cares not for my desire to just sleep.

'Confess!' it screams.
'Exalt!' is urges.
It tears the worst of me from my memories
and strips the best intentions from what I suppose to be.

The poem is heavy on my back
and it sets me free.