I
thought of mother—the multiple abuses, as stressed to hold things together;
wherewith, was liquor, the same for drugs, asearch for our love; noted as the
black-sheep, tortured for unrest, enlove with chaos. It couldn’t be real, this
inner schematic, our outward gravitation; to court her death, from asylum to
clinics, her mother’s affectation. This wounded soul, infused by love, as
insecure as distrust. Such was flatness, the angst of pills, to approach
animation. I cried her wounds, this infinite blackmail, which shattered limits;
to laugh his pain, this tortured affair, fraught with broken bones; as troubled
as breakdowns, this fatal attempt, to raise a young man; therewith, alone, a
casualty of life, abandoned to the dregs; this infant affair, as thus ghetto
magic, this Baptist nature; as born a Catholic, the grains of Passion, as
morphed an apostolic; to rapture love, as fully infused, adrift the steepest
cliffs; to gesture for gods, afield with black magic, to pass an onyx ring. I
tried to laugh, to offset intensity, to see her through so many eyes—our deep
connection; to love this woman, a bit distinct, to witness this nuance. It
couldn’t be real, this never to escape, lurking near pearly minds; at random
our scars, featured in features, a psych’s discernment: that inner turmoil,
that inner chaos—that bent towards destruction. It mustn’t be real, a man his
age, repeating this thing he disdains. Such is life, to cleave the familiar,
despite the deaths; as born a human, to morph so gently, as to claim for
manhood. We wonder for honors, of those quite qualified, to pass such judgment;
to hold mother’s hand, as she asks our name—that far removed from reality. It
aches the soul, to witness this foible, a woman our mother’s honor. It aches to
perish, a childhood of Satan’s, wrestling with introjects. I met her thrice, to
learn as we go—to never fall enlove. I saw her bruised, to hold composure, a
woman of his heartbeat. We peddle forever, as looking back, hoping mother holds
our seats; but fiction be life, this culture dread, as fevered as a mystic
teacher. It couldn’t real, the child as mentor, this random turn of events; to
have as magic, a yogic word, too young for adulthood; as there is was, this man
of a child, sorting through mother’s trauma. I’ve met her grieving, this
constant encounter, as to blend cultures. We’re not removed, as isolated souls,
experiencing something unique. Oh this terrible truth, to hit us at unawares,
to fail to see affectation. I fell enlove, as distinguishing faces, as to fail
to see mother: this brilliant art, as painted perfection, this need to protect.
It’s the pain of love, as grounded in absence, a brain distant from itself. I
must retreat!
