maybe we desire stimulation, pain,
epithets, laughter turned sullen. maybe the ghosts are bleeding—as electricity—bouncing
body to skies; a furious pagan, a slave of crimes, sentenced last turn—running with
giggles, Medicaid ran out. getting high in ghettoes, the bone aching, the marrow
intoxicated—so precious, so beautiful, her faith in a cell—the mood of a minority,
the margins for terrific sin, while skin becomes boundaries; fumbling my life,
more liquor for souls, mother watched as I grinned—foot to pit, snakes with
groceries, it was difficult developing discernment. days are daisies, deserved
in dungeons, drugged at the asylum—black folks facing depression, like prayer
hands in a text—fathers doing years, it seems accepted, rehab becomes furious—trying
against skin, weakened to take a blast, the counselor is an addict. the judge
is worried, no one is listening, he goes deeper into pills. life is funny, the
puritan is angry, the laxed are suffering—all are unstable.
many are worrying, many are
stifled, many more are born to poverty. a miracle mindset, never hopeless,
albeit, close to dying—the fields with pleasant words, as long as over there,
with plenty claiming universal love. we mean something different, we mean sex,
while a little boy is emaciated and a vulture in waiting patiently. the vulture
knows its legacy, it knows disease, it knows the death warrant.
back to a psych, back to mentality,
back to jibbing and jabbing and jiving—all is orders, while complete on paper,
so unstudied by self. sirens raging, mothers too low to jump higher—my mind
tripping, looking at what some ignore, we desire pure beauty. a little
different than me, same affliction, too wise to hear my shit. the condition has
conditions, the fire is furious, most carry a bucket of water.
