I ponder
sugarcane and privilege or sorrow and turmoil while sensing this impression. Those
softballs pitched and struck asunder this touch of hay this mythical reality—in
so many brittle layers as lawyers unfold terribly and Judges assess little
maniacs; those grassy feelings this rusty bike or captured by sandy beige eyes;
to die in you where it meant so much as preferred a character by upper echelon.
If but our names as centerpieces or those suggestions splayed by facts where
railroads are roaring loudly. This psychological adjustment these harsher
causalities while souls are pitching quarters. Mothers are running and cocaine
is cooking and powder is abundant; this first item we see while pipes are
exploding or something reeks this odiferous angel; for mother is holy and father
is mystical while a son is bright and too bright to find comforts. I dance
memories as one aloof through time while looking or peering into something
desiring recognition. (This deeper agony as a woman with affliction and
needing to be treated like sophistication. This element boiling this human
asking forgiveness where a particular stranger has become interesting. Or maybe
to loathe his guts those arrogant particles or that confidant gait; to slip into
stride to stumble while apologizing at something demanding a man’s respect. These
little ‘things’ that count those etiquette essences that sing where one so
gentle stumbles into a liaison. But strengths are harassed while admired where
either we exist paradox or contradiction).
I sit
and I daze or caged by affections while wandering this ghetto cinema; or off in
Valleys loving like sinning at some lady adrift something horrible; our palms
nailed our fathers jailed or such marvelous-surrendering hells; while necessity
begins to adore Miss Disappearance as such a man attempting to articulate a
second’s encounter; this extreme nature or this romantic inclination while most
find it frightening. It comes to training in this land of escapes where
something foreign attracts because it’s an inversion of mother. This unique
position while mother is there but something distinctive is separated; to
chance a feeling or by art a killing if but to eyes those moments enthralled;
to partially adore or to love in thought where body is arguing for clarity;
this refurbished horizon those slight delusions while a feature wrestles for
freedom.
It was
1984 a boy around eight when it first seemed destiny. Mother and I had a
discussion shortly before bedtime where friction still lingered. Around 4 a.m. I
was wrestled from rest and there she stood looking possessed. What the bleep
did you mean by what you said and who the bleep is you to have feelings? I was
this and I was that and nothing seemed to calm this bestial orientation. Wash
the dishes and clean the living room and I bet you will think twice before
talking that bleep. I cleaned and listened. I heard frightful things, and a
thought occurred concerning my allotment. This became routine as a boy learned
manipulation where some occasions where disputed inside as plain vicious. But days
were gentle those points this crazed dynamic where a soft moment can become
harsh in a given second. This ghetto reality this space in jungles this gut in
terrors. I ought to slap the bleep out of you because these dishes are not
clean. You think I won’t—just try me you dumb piece of bleed—talking to me like
that I’m your mother and you will respect me—you tired mother bleep and you and
that mother bleep that bleeped with me last night—you all will learn because
hell will freeze over before I kiss some ass. One becomes accustomed and feels
like a miracle while attending something, any part of life, as something
therapeutic. This gray matter with over twenty-eight years while an adult man
fiddles with memories long after mother’s death. (With only one introject!)
