a man said he’s a pirate, maybe
to break monotony,
maybe to speak
to cultural crops.
a legacy in riches,
punishable by
death, much futuristic
slave trading.
I mushed
breadfruit
into an ant hole in
a backyard anthill.
I do exaggerate. I
have metaphors,
senseless,
reclusive tropes.
by fringe, some
edge, looking down
on another me—some
shiny eyed
mulatto, some naïve
kid, with little
understanding of
masking for survival.
call it into
question, please search
for identity, I am
a pirate.
around a millpond
next to an old
tetherball sits a flickering person.
her eyes are red,
her feet are bronze,
her hair is wool.
her voice is iron,
made melodious spirit,
her words float on
wings. a greater soul
in a broken land
needing like flesh a
heart to tumble.
many will die
refuting insides arguing for clarity. many crops will die on some faraway farm
a Jewish boy reading his Pentateuch.
there’s a
masquerade close inside, we try to unmask pirates, in a setting needing
approval.
prose phantoms.
mind ghosts.
