thrown under the bus

nowadays all she does is whine about her bodily pains,

but when you were left alone, 

she stayed drunk, prowling the bars

days on end, 

oblivious to the emotional wreckage left

on your chest, like a hot iron

melted through the tender heart of a 10 year old,

the open wound to the 


cauterized shut

too soon,

without even leaving any open flesh

for the pain to be released,

seared closed with the shame, pain, and false pride of generations,

sealed in for years like a safety box of magnets,

pulling you towards anything and everything self-destructive

in a desperate search for some morsel of hope,

that the next christmas dinner might be more than 

knocking on the doors of neighbors, being lucky enough to be

asked in to share a holiday meal, 

and an attempt to be noticed for something other than the burden

you were to her deep and fervent longing for 

the escape, into smoke filled rooms,

that reeked with the heavy, putrid smell of week-old frying grease,

cigarettes, and hairspray, that became one of your main

reasons for going to live with your dad--

other than the day she up and left for california,

a 50 dollar bill to substitute her mac and cheese, dribbled with 

one and a half inches of ashes off a pall mall,

only to be less than reluctantly welcomed by him,

and a stepbrother who most always was 

notably more worthy of better dirtbikes, nicer clothes 

and a much more frequent pat on the back 

for a job well done, 

that most often wasn't.


a dollar for him and quarter for you, along with the bottom bunk,

that smelled like pee from all the years he wet the bed,

only ever good enough for sloppy seconds--

and then there was brownie,

poor broken down swayback, with skin infections,

baldspots and degenertive bone disease,

in light of your brother's black stallion stud,

as if the 6 inch scar on the back of your leg wasn't enough 

from your father's drunken rage with a 4 inch hunting knife,

and the glass from the window that left it's souvenir the night he threw you

across the room, all before the age of 14.



i may have shot that horse between the eyes too.





11:37 PM 6/26/2013





Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just a poem about a kid.





Maybe You Should Have Taken the Bus?

The santa claus sombrero watches over the helium head heart ballon,

it drinks softly through the straw into deep empty wine bottles,

and i'm the only one up,

the only one who hears the bugs sing and crawl,

the only one who hears the night train strain and stall,

fall into gravitys-gone nosedive,

how to survive the narrow-neck summer,

I guess just tip back,

Into the greatest dark of yet unknown,

tip-back and sit in a chair not fit for rocking,

it will be a bump-bump ride,

don't fasten any seatbelts and resume smoking ladies and gentlemen,

the pilot has been drinking all day and your stewardess's have been fucking all night,

Enjoy the ride,

the plane will be crashing in approximately an hour,

Thank you for flying the friendly skys with us tonight,

the peanuts are uncomplimentary and each passenger will be assessed a nut-tax based on the state-fly-zone policy and allergy-reactive population zone-tax,

Maybe you should have taken the bus?

View hce's Full Portfolio

Ode to ETS

did i ever tell you how much
i like riding the bus?
especially on a winter morning
primordial dark
insulated from the city in warmth
and shadows

i like to let the rhythmic whir
stroke my ears
coffee and whiskey in my belly
with eyes half-closed
sharp edges and hard yellow lines
shimmer and pulse

i like to slip in and out
of sleeping
we slough off layers of the city
like dream images
only half-remembering the route
taken three hundred times or more

i like knowing and not knowing
faces in blue light
we know each other's secret
morning ritual
knowing looks filter through
anonymous space

i like feeling that this route
could last forever
always moving on a boundary in time
not arriving anywhere
and did i ever tell you how much
i like riding the bus?