My Story.

Aunt Sis,
who I think really was my mother,
but that's another story, cut her wrist
33 years old then sat in the bathtub
and waited.
That was something!

Cops all over the old apartment
on Cherry Street downtown.
Looking for, God knows what!
Grandma screaming in Italian
making the sign of the cross
at least fifty times a minute.
While uncle Joe the family gangster
was trying to bribe the priest,
to overlook what he saw.
So Sis could have a catholic funeral.

October 13, 1958 I remember the day
and year and everyone there.

I grew up in a crazy house,
with dope addict cousins
a trans-gender brother,
and a mother & father that drank
& slept through it all.

So do yourself a favor.
Don't sit next to me in a bar
and tell me your problems.
Cause I have you beat before,
you even open your mouth!
.
.