(I’m
mere a lad, slamming dominoes, leering at insanity: impish laughter; scented
fumes; women brave that war: I’m told less, to see more, that earthquake
conversation). Cigarettes pass time, to un-riddle innuendoes—that beige by
bedroom anger. We live this way, pretending our natures, while to mimic a
distorted image; this cry for grits, and six-minute-bacon—bread, butter and
cinnamon. It lingers his mind, those famous personas, while seeking identity:
that rhythm-walk; those tall tales; that woman by a set of rules; as casual
converse, a bit too busy, that bedroom adventure; to smell an odor—as something
harsh—this infatuation with mouthwash: to kill a segment, as prior to growth,
about standards a bit dysfunctional; as more consensus, this feral culture, at
tears to fashion our heartbeats. We read books, vying with black psychs, those
as wild as hyenas: that armoire magic; that diary of sins; that memoir sitting
in safes; as mother called, as another woman, teaching by mere examples: to
push his buttons; to laugh at cruelty; at demands for respect. I took to
rawness, where mother laughed, as to mold an impression. Our family was scattered;
our roots were synthetic; where nannies guzzled and raised myriads. I heard of
legends: I heard of vacant homes: I knew secrets as showing a trait. I spoke as
spoken to; I treaded gently; I responded with facts. Life was different—as
immortal souls—longing beyond promises. We gathered around, to witness pit
bulls—as to utter it not: We knew of parties, those teenage vixens—that fear
dissipating: We laughed our pains, while to cleave to images, where mothers
tried to live it discreetly; as more to laughs, as children are cruel, to
explain it in great detail. I’m mere a teenager, floating without a license,
racing by hearts this culture: a curtly style; a flamboyant appeal; this error
of ways embedded; those mental bars, as iron to morals, at stumbles to fall
those mannerisms; this course of life, fretting reality, a man as treated that
way; those feelings dormant, as believed as dead, to morph by chance in
college; this blurry portrait; but near familiar; as seeing secrets oozing
through eye-beats: that casual stance; that type of skin-tone; those shifts as
hypomanics; to see sensitivity, where ours is debated, as flooded with
mood-turns; our feral minds, a bit concerned, while ignoring accountability—as
not for reckless, but more as entitlements, where deference is expected. I come
from madness; those blatant discussions; where riddles carry contempt; or more
this pain, shredded at hearts, as fueled by controversy—to see it lives, at
cultures to souls—this needs to control. I’m now a man, this claim vetted
rarely, as more to reality; but life is roses, this priestly ache, that
fabulous nun; as more to sanity, crawling through memories, praying for
father’s soul; while, too, for mother, this infamous fuse, where training was
hard-won: to journey by course; to listen to psychs; to concentrate by art
those follies of souls; where love is pure, as hearts are amazed, while surfing
through portraits of Jesus; this fairest of stars, that charge by glints, as
arranged through fate a static faith; as more eclectic, to know by graces, this
force by aches of human beings; this terrible passion, alerted to by brains,
where one enters by ritual a person’s heart.
