Seesaw
scissors. Laughing like winning. Dying like confused.
As dead
men or dead women aloft and tugged by grime.
Our
sinning happiness. So close to haven hells. So sliced our covenant. /
Re-battled pains. Too rigid to succeed. Or alive and grateful. / Our terrified
habits. Needing full disclosure. So tight in reigns strung a curse. / Abandoned
to losing. Trekking losing hills. As found and nurtured. / Our metal friends.
Such an island tree. While souls torture trees. –as would a canine, as would a
snakebite, our venomous dynasties.
…it
appears as violation, a mother apologizing, gripping muddy pliers—crying quicksand,
chugging and chunking laughter, while knuckles are spliced with DNA; “Please,
son, it’s not your fault, such becomes us”:
…those
sweeter harms, this candy for winners, this realized situation for losers; our
bedbugs, our rashes, our constant apologetic natures; so dead right there,
tears such mudslides there, while laughing sipping Cobras; this feeling, this
sense, looking feeling abnormal—or not for clarity, while all are similar,
where this refrigerator melts pudding; those lies for me, those deaths for us,
while ghetto steak has onions….
…as
abused to trespass such wire with cadence such element with pistols those lakes
in there or this fire in here at something becoming plain ridiculous; those
furious pimps as limped into comatose or women so unraveled as pure
intoxication to feel draughts as men reliving or women so cold it felt goodness—exploding
in treachery exposed so early a nine year old demonstrator; at smells but odors
a bit curious as resurfacing in felt panic; “Please, son, it’s not your fault,
such becomes us”:
…indelicacies,
so aware of blames, while born to community addicts; our deeper furniture, our
days unknit, our potatoes onions plus eggs; our bacon nights, our pig foot
mornings, at something apparently underachieved; for media is crazed, such innocence
they appear, recording black faces playing this water pain; our friendly
adversaries, our Sun Tzu’s, or a child at seven doing a juvenile life sentence;
so cured we claim, realizing a secret, we speak a taught language; so bad to
read maniac, so glad to reach maniac, while knowing but strict differences….
It
seemed daylight, such a tender lighter, our coals and soot and drifting(s)—this
biological ghetto, this chemistry ghetto, at cherries and whores and men losing
stature; our mothers with concerns, those rooms those excitements or that fatal
kingdom—as alive a forbidden dungeon so close a neighboring fatality our
daughters so crooked and raw to die forever, to adore such dying, to move to a
Beverly Hill’s ghetto mentality; so beautiful, so reckless, at tiles regluing
mercy those deceased arguments, proffered as newly born, while Love felt
sympathy: this dung island, this meeting our faces, so armchair, so crooked,
while research is by merits.
…something
you believe in, something you’d give breath for, as something someone else
desecrates—as with permission, so pure our eyes, so golden our sins, to become
perfect obedience—as tossed for pleasure, discarded for practice, and forced to
plead….
