Poem: “Violence In Crayon” (2005)

He takes a crayon from the jar and draws violence.

He presses the green crayon to
the edge of the paper: a waxy horizon
extends across.

Green goes down; brown comes up.

The walls of the house are erected:
two square windows divided
into quarters and
a rectangle-and-circle door.
The chimney and angled roof
reach upward toward rising,
spiraling smoke.

Brown goes down; blue comes up.

Mommy is drawn with a lightness of hand
that can only be called affection.
Her hair cascades around teary
eyes and frightened mouth. Her blue dress
emerges in angles.

Blues goes down; purple comes up.

A small circle is pressed into the paper
behind Mommy's back. The same
look of fright leaves desperate
indentations in the sheets below.
A mirror in purple,
his body is rooted
in place through shaky lines.

Purple goes down; red comes up,

is pressed hard into the paper.
The monster's face swallows
the page, hair exploding
toward the upper edge; angry eyebrows
over pinpoint eyes that nearly fall
into the fire mouth.
Teeth menace forward as
the crayon's pressure rips
the page, tears
a small hole
at the back of Daddy's throat.

Red goes down.

Yellow comes up, offering
a circle with rays extending:
a huge yellow sun
in the warm
corner, standing witness.

Yellow goes down.

Published as lyrics for Matt Rosin and the Dead Raven Choir’s Fire Mouth collaborative LP.