group therapy

they hold it,

the silver lever.

the white coat man

says, ‘Now.’

we feel the shock

in our guts, at

our fingers tips,

charging our eyeballs.

everything smells like

burnt hair.

those around us

scare us.

‘Why? Again?

Why again?’

smoke clears.

sparks dissipate

out our soles and

find homes in our bones

and blood.

i see you and remember

what we share.

you smile.

i smile.

the white coat man

says, ‘Now,’ and

they slam the lever down.

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problem solved

federal money for guns in classrooms

so the pigs on the hill can appease

ol’ wayne lapierre.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

so the likelihood of accidents can increase

to an even more absurd degree.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

so that when a gun fires in a first grade classroom,

it’s not the only one.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

so that public schools are so terrifying

no one sends their kids inside.

 

federal money for guns in classrooms

because, as adults, this is how

we solve problems.

 

there is not enough bewilderment

to fill this senseless void;

the place we’ll bury the

dead kids we failed.

everything at once

i lost my virginity

the same day i took

my first step, the same day

i dropped dead, the same

day i got married and

got drunk and

quit drinking.

the same day i

wrote something lively

i wrote something glum.

made a thousand on

payday, the same day

i spent all my coins on

smokes.

the same day my grandparents

held me is the day

i saw them go.

the same day

i died, i lived.