Grace comes home drunk
And beats on the door to my gut
I fumble with locks til a wound opens
And she falls in laughing

Honey, I’m home
Honey, I’m home

I wince as she stumbles up my spine
And leaves a trail of bruises on my ribs
I choke on her dancing on my tongue
Where she kicks out a tooth

Honey, I’m home
Honey, I’m home

She smokes her cigarettes inside my head
And blows all the smoke into my eyes
Til one melts a tear and she sighs,
Just what I thought
Another fragile buddha


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A rare genius. The critics are right. Expect great things from this man.

-Ken Wilber, Author of over a dozen books on consciousness