Christopher

Christopher sits with his
head in his knees,
cradling his brain in
a support made from
arm bones and leg braces.
Somebody tied his attention span's
shoelaces together
so now, he can't stop
tripping over his own train of thoughtless.
He shifts and shakes Mommy's purse strings
and mumbles magic beans into thin air,
telling her about unseen galaxies and
the mean kids at school.
At this point,
she doesn't know which of his words
are her place of worship anymore -
she has lost the will
to believe.

Christopher stands with his

head in his lap
and defies gravity,
defies you to understand what he
is screaming at the pretty people.
He wants to walk like them,
but can't bring himself to stop dancing -
but they don't call it dancing,
they call it flailing,
attracting attention.

You think he wants attention?

He has enough tension
to fill the whole classroom
along with its wide eyes and slack-jawed stupor
“Christopher, are you listening to me?
Christopher, can you hear me?
Christopher.
Christopher.
Christopher.”
Yes, my name is Christopher.
It is branded on the inside of my tongue
trying to break out of my cellophane jail cell.
I can hear you rattling my rib bone prison bars
with your nicknames and your cyanide dreams
and your digital hate mail
folded up and thrown through the gaps
in my fingers
where the monsters always seem
to get through
because there is no escape
from the world wide
spider web.
There is no waking up
and finding yourself
not filled with poisonous difference,
with lack of acceptable substance

but let me tell you this.

My screams can be heard from space,

and the stars think that I am singing.
The ringing in my ears never stops,
but that is because I speak half human
and half whale,
and whales are chatty motherfuckers -
seriously, they can put any real housewife
to shame.
I will carve my name
into the palms of my outstretched desk
so that it does not forget me
when I go.
I have this fear
that one day
no one will remember me,
but even more scary,
that no one will care to try.
So I insist that at least this wooden face
will always have a smile for me
when I swing on home,
on my legs made of sun
and my head made of moon
beam me up and let me show you
how I can shine,
let me show you
the beauty in my fingertips,
how it only shines
to let you know that I am here.
I am here.

I come in peace

by piece so that you

are not aware of my awkward steps.
Listen to this cadence
and tell me that you hear
hummingbird wing beats
instead of flapping hands
and fluttering eyelids.
Listen to my heart
and tell me you hear the roar of a king,
not the stutter of defensive wounds
pouring too much information,
random facts recited fence-like against
your aim

My name is Christopher.

My head is cradled in slings
made from the hate notes
you paper airplaned over my horizon
and let me tell you
I have never held my head
higher.