Never understood the hate the love the
bankrupt feeling. Plucking clovers, eating dirt, asked
to remain humble. Momma was a locomotive. Father was a diamond. Granny knew
bullshit. I did graffiti. I ate shrimps. I removed an ingredient. I fell
enlove. Page four, a four-page letter, an appetite for feelings, a measure in
emotion. I can’t for giving. I sin in transgression. I knew momma had a halo. Years
passed. Deaths are inevitable. Angels become demons. Some figured God out—started
selling her notions, baffled, gutted, pleading—it can’t be excellence—the fire,
God, the pain, Lucifer, the light as pure symbolic. The last page, Genius! The
first rites, Glory! Too young to know for destination. It seems so simple. It
became science. What in earth the spell! Just investigating. Just altering the
gift. Just angry! I was in tales. I was given a tittle. I was said
unverifiable. So much validated—prophetic arguments, scholastic tides—the ocean
is leaking literature. A lasting giggle, a bent brain, so much cloth on the
violin.
