ode to 14

sitting at a desk listening, intently,
to Suicidal Tendencies,
lost in a world of smoldering fires
that I had not set
with a match that did not belong to me.

there was nothing quiet in the rage
calm, serene thoughts of death
(mine or his)

And I'm the failure?
not all antiques are worth something.

Oh, there's blame enough for everyone
on Sunday phone calls, "you're just being dramatic"
(even with slurred speech from fat lips)
on every night hoping not to wake, no more anxiety
(slow understanding of nothingness)
its all dramatics, after all,
I'd stolen $20 with her ATM card.

Wooded torture chambers
are whats called for when you come home
with $6 worth of comic books.
in hindsight - i should have kept the change.

the gift was the understanding
that nothing really meant anything
and the world was not real,
no matter how beautiful the cedars seem
with blood streaming from your forehead,
an eternity in red and sublime green.