“not into
difficult. mainly complex simplicity. unlike territorial jargon.” leaves are
crisp, season is changing, hay is still flammable. black kids were running
through jungles, they stumbled upon a body, they called out to their parents.
grownups took charge. most were speculating. the boys were interrogated.
many signs
pointing at you. I would never embarrass you – not again. some might dig into
us, unravel us, where hostility avails.
by rage of ten leopards
by courage of nine apes or by charging of a dozen elephants; to sit on a settee,
to examine fire, while homes are filled with hyenas.
we lived off
hand-me-downs. we ate liver. no one volunteers for liver meat. I was attached
to you. you’re a noncolor woman. I see in you differences. it’s attributed to
upbringing, different regulations, firm expectations. we often say, “Entitlements.”
this is too easy. we never say, “Elegance.” or we say, “Privilege.” while we
lust for habits. we never say, “Upbringing has bred something outstanding.”
I get angry with
you, or wonder what changes you, where, we might say, maybe on a late night,
while filled with gin, they’ve what I crave after: quickfire rebuttals, a lack
of devastation, most aren’t born with stigmata attached.
I leave those
remarks. I haven’t said much. it amazes how we desire each other.
born with Paul’s
thorn. rummaging intestines. it seems like rawness – our divisions, our
schisms, our dowry convictions.
mother was a
glassdoor, made public, difficult to debate with; father ate existence, ravaged
innocence, left with few incisions.
the moon is
unstable. it makes allegations. it might accuse you when it stands aside
wrongness. it’s amoral, anti-ethics, it does as it pleases always confused
about sadness. it acts against itself.
quite simple. nothing complex. as I sit
inside myself.
