I
sparked a clove, seated at a back porch, sipping Folgers. I examined sorrow,
this tinge of freedom, musing scriptures; to capture eyes, or fumble feelings,
at waves this inner visitor. I remember lemons, freshly squeezed, and cinnamon
toast. I shift to sugar water, and loquats, and a dozen ice cubes. It seems so
simple, seated at this emotion, coursing through ideals; to knit a hope, a bit
listless, spying at sequences; this miracle sun, our fantastic gift, this shift
through prose our adventures. I looked at mother, those days of sobriety—eyes
protruding misery; as hours would pass, to forsake sobriety, a room filled with
strangers. I watched this course, headed towards fields, afloat that kite our
woes; to struggle winds, eating gummy worms, to have lost a grip on reality;
this fickle friend, as changing by arts—our relativistic societies; to find
that feeling, while doing our biddings, this harpoon through logic. I thought
of grandma, those audible visions, screaming of someone that mind; to couple a
butterfly, why cursing invisibility, afraid that dolls could speak; this terrible
thing—as bent towards insanity, watching Leave
It to Beaver: those horrible ideals; those terrible fabrications; that myth
vetting disasters; to have this mischief, seated in perfection, while smoke
wafted through our living room. It’s
time for dinner, those flavored chicken wings—a small pot of whole corn, those
buttery biscuits, a piece of seven-up-cake, and a glass of that lemonade. We
ate portions, and felt content, as I washed dishes cheerfully: this pure
illusion; our own reality; that social insanity; as years and bars, scars and
feelings, those bruises to reasoning; this
grave dysfunction, to know those eyes, a far cry from ourselves! Nectarines are growing—as firm as oranges,
while we pluck and steal and run and laugh—our parents penciling in promises.
It takes for courage, where such is unthought of, for it came so early as
normalcy: that cranky mood; those protective lies; those fights demeaning a
child; a bit subversive, this sneaky soul, manipulating as a form of escape;
while seeking purple, or mahogany wings, as finding magenta cries; to sing of
souls, those yearly blues, staring at rooms of fires: those loud voices, as
slamming dominoes, that scent of Brandy; as rooms carried particles, this type
of life, this breath of adventure; to sit in stillness, while deep at images,
to envision this life as Dennis The
Menace: that picture perfect mother; that serious but kind father; that
house that spoke of this anomaly—as for someone young, at odds with realities,
ashamed of those childlike ideals—that inner craving, as to realize dimensions,
seeking as finding those errors; this tragic art, as ill-equipped, but with
proves to determine wrongness; this
cry of passions, to sense that refuge, as to examine through comparisons; that
false impression, as preparing for prose, this advent in souls as singing.
