Cherub-Rock Stance
To choose-your-fighter
Chun-Li.
Is how I’ve lived my life, mostly.

A wardrobe change and somehow the blind-gal
Is beaming.
The smile is tarnished, saccharine, and sad.
No one really gets why.

In all my beauty, it took about 60 years for anyone to notice.
Traffic the Saint.
I was a little kid again.
18 times on jump.street.

I work with people too.
67 never looked so dismal.
I didn’t waste my life away.
Just never got too personal about it.

Existing.
In my own virtue, and sancititcyt.
I looked to Atheism as if it would save me.
Got educational.

And proceeded to education, service, and scripture.
The main rhythms of life, and my blues really enjoyed
Acting, film, role, media, production.
The culinary arts and music.

Ingenious teetoler.
Addiction my own experiment.
The sacred of the sad-nun with a party drawer.

Taught the gonzo, how I party.
And come up with another verse to dismay in clinical depression.
Why romanticize sociopathy.
When my bond-eternal alive is what brings me to scripture.

The drunk-philosopher.
The opium-scented sculpterist.
Play a jist,
I have too many jokes to hide.

Nothing in Nihilism.
No real debt, all dismay.
I found myself here, as it was the safest sense to keep going.
Where even death proved inadmissible.

To the life I nourished in chaste+strength.
What to protrude onto mankind and my humble solemnities
Of solstice-rising.
And another beat without lyric.

The lights didn’t click on until 1983,
And saves the mouths of those I wasn’t good enough for.
Glad you don’t recognize me at the doctor’s office
Or in the store. On base.

No one asked once,
If Ash was my name.
And celebrities, starlets, and I chose the other-side.
The man was the only one who said anything bout it.

That’s okay.
I didn’t really wish to talk about it anyways.
Hurts to hear it anymore.
No one called me by my first name when I was at War.

Communion an Hour in.
Bless me, father.
For i have sinned.
Somehow – I exist.

No spectre to begger onto thee.
My own creation discrupzlized.
And in virtue, my paradox is no sense of hope.
For I am guilty, undeemed as I write on in creative nonfiction.

I should not be here.
Years in whispers and the siren you silence, in hope of prayer.
The girl you hurt before.
I think she was asian.

And I think she was rancicnent into whatever the hell this life thing is.
All my kids from rape and not a damn one recognizes me in the pictures of their graduations.
I never missed a play.
Skip out of Hanoi, your chemistry project looks promising.

I got you the scholarship with amnesty, anonymously.
I just sent it in, it had worth.

Nepotism-avoidant.
And my grandkids are getting into 17th generations.
The raped-nun.
And I have to bicker with myself as to why should I care of a biologic family.

Never let me around them.
And all they did was flirt with the new girl.
You’re killing your Mother, don’t you see.
Just like their Father and their crowd and their hoard and their agreements in followers.

And I don’t know mormon code or jehovah, none-of-that.
Save your house and mortgage.
Don’t worry about the storage fee.
Towed your car, check the mail.
I left a bill paid there for ya, just to let you know.

Gotta take you off my taxes now,
600 a month from an old show in Sainthood.

68 and I never got to know Motherhood.
I have 14 and they’re not out there.
Always in my head, haunting me.
Kabbalah and unsure why they think they’re crazy to hear me in your voice.

Born a Magdelana out of sin.
Your deadbeat father couldn’t say it to you.
I hope you’ve heard somehow.
Mommy tried to be around.

He would’t let me near ya.
And they wouldn’t agree.
He’s got a woman once more,
Or 12 or 3.

Some amount incalcuable.
Of all my I loved in partition.

I have no family.
I tried.