foreigner or foe

pen marks stitch on the skin.
the fumes of my land where i stepped to
validity, disappears. goosebumps in high reach
is all that covers.
though my complexion fits as you’d have it be,
my language, on the tip of
the tongue - you have trained to speak
a borrowed one.

and now - a kind of artifact i can
hang on my wall, along with the body
i carried years ago. still clinging
of airplane fuel.

quite a pity - never did i love
what was most alive -
until i cut to hurt,
and out came mercy. oh the blood pours heavy, mine to coat
your streets with.
am i loud enough now.

hey mother! Russia is burning, and i think our neighbors have left. daddy is in the hallway shooting heroin. i want to cook for him, but his eyes are distant on the ceiling. he's trying to hook fish with his glare. guess what?
i was on a Broadway stage last night.

(in my head again, in the bedroom with the door closed) while you were on the phone crying

i saw myself spinning. (right off the stage)

i had that feeling again.... i think grandma is getting closer to walking glitz on deaths door. speaking of, i think you should know that you're going to be crawling on your knees, wishing god had taken you with him in a few months. blood will stain your hands from survival. but red has always been your color

don't worry though: i have my cross on and i'll be protected from sin. i think there's something better for us. i hope there is. i don't want to catch fire in this city. not now.

and when the night gets silent, the little girl comes out to sing.

ahh my grandfather. The rebel, the drunk, the abuser, the prisoner, the poet, long deceased. He died in prison. He urinated on cops. He had mistresses all over town. He had violent outbursts and owned guns he stole from mobsters. He shot a man in the eye. He got stabbed 3 times. He was in gangs. He wrote incredible poetry. He was the life of the party. He was terribly exhausting. Dangerously opinionated. My mother compares me to him. Says I am an outcast of the family.

Just like he was. Who knows: I too might end up in prison with tattoos all over my body and a lonely heart.

I wish I knew more about the man. I wish I knew him when I was little.
I don't know much about my family. Everyone feels like strangers in non fiction books. All I have are names and photographs from the 60's and 70's.