Again
a young man, leering at mother, this liquid expression; as day was young, about
eight hours and five minutes—this flimsy pillow. I paced cheers, adrift this
rain, gazing at a stranger: our carpet spotted; a vulture knocking; a room of
ghostly pistons. “Open the door.” I searched a feeling, this inner grimace—alert
to violence. Our rooms were cold; our
comforters thick; playing Atari 600. This
figure glared, eyes through brains, this subtle trepidation; to dry out warmth,
as two disappeared—I knew to see a ghost: that deep trance; at functions as
normal; where patience is servitude: scrambled eggs; a sirloin steak; a
haunting smile. I retreated nearby; this
ancient soul; those observing nods. Life
was normal, despite oddities, searching a friend’s home: that other war, this
deep religion, where perfection is demanded. I watched for trains, leaping freight to
freight, while escaping tension; this bold reality—our family astray, putting
distance between that and us. Our door was
open; our window was broken; this husband was kicking ass in the name of love.
It shocks us deeply, as reasonable souls, to witness this repeated chaos; as
that’s the pain, as realizing, “I’m more,” while hating this aloneness; where
hell is normal, as tears are vengeance, while assuming it’s permissible to
abuse. The dregs carry secrets; this
search for potential lambs; where converse is a session of searching out
weaknesses: this game of chess; this course at battle; (to turn one into us!): (that
zeal by knowing; that eerie disposition; that need to vet every sentence!);
while mothers are angered, spewing promises, where fathers are periodic: maybe
for sex; maybe for drugs; maybe for both! We feasted upon trauma; sipped as juveniles;
and laughed at things quite offensive; but nothing that sight, as mother
suffered—that arm broken in different places; or more those eyes, (covered as
human purple), those blots upon whiteness. I’m now a man, scarred by existence, learning
of something existential; to love aloofness, or more this art of passion, led
by something internal: this portrait rightness; those shaded ideals; this want
for a different adventure; as courting perfection, while embracing
disappointments, this image of humanity; as searching for wrongness, at woes
with flesh, at wars with mirrors; to outrace self; believing in sorrows, to ask
for honesty; for by it to sing, through everybody’s evils, at tension to
remember justice. I’m now a son—this
need to converse, as to fill this sober void. I’m now a friend, to forget our legacy, as to
erase those images. It threshes souls,
to venture with drugs, as to heal ourselves: “You’re too damn independent”:
“You only listen to books”: “You don’t trust a damn thing I’m saying.” I disappear, as merely a lad, swatting clouds
of smoke. I reappear, as merely a soul,
at mercy to transform: those small deaths, informing memories—this mystic
slant; those iron bars, as cutting souls, this collegial dungeon; as more for
striving, to find normalcy, as concrete remains static.
I’m fighting phantoms, abased inside, at woes
to forgive: that purgatorial, to drop gutting tears, as humble as one
surrendering; to flee by watching, to have by digestion, to measure by variety;
this sad song, a bit taboo, while one peers from a distance. I feel that pace,
this need for coldness, while something is dying; so more to love, as receiving
wholeness, bent by arts that scar.
