by Jerry Judge
One of his parents was a pink Corvette, the other a moonrock.
One was an astronaut, the other a floating guitar.
In his family, rules were written on falling leaves and ghosts
assumed full voting rights.
One of his parents was a honey badger, the other a black mamba.
One started the car late every night.
His tattoos on each arm, leg, and shoulder blade
display slaughtered animals.
One of his parents drank unknown blood and howled
whenever the other tried to leave.
During their botched attempt to make him like them,
one parent stuffed him into the cellar hole.
The other sang to him non-stop in discordant tones.
One parent was a meteor, the other a cosmos.
No day was ever dull.
One parent was a long cigarette,
the other, cancer waiting.
He was the boy flying the broken spaceship
into bigger and bigger black holes.