An Autobiography

Tell the bastard, the blonde,
and the boogeyman alike,
that I now carry a cannonball,
which in fact,
weighs less than they might.
Tell the junkie, the juror,
and the jerk-off that can't hold a door,
that I can swing an axe sharp enough
to cut rain clouds
right before they pour.
Tell the drunk, the devil,
and the drop-kick routine,
that my lungs are used to a fume
a little less than soothing.
Tell the creator, the character,
and the caution tape, too,
that I grew pianos out of cuts
which never healed too soon.
Tell the moment, the monument,
and the miracle's intention,
that I speak my day's like opportunity,
creating my own divinity,
my own intervention.

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