A Box Of Chalk

 over pomegranates those fields plus a few loquats. mother looks silky. or like “Down Home Blues.” or such a creature by habits. I run further—into sugars or pears or grapes. we eat, we laugh, we become disgruntle but solemn.

“You know what they’re doing? You must have a clue. You are so naïve.”

I wouldn’t whisper. I wouldn’t sing. It was close to obvious—someone knew.

            pit bulls flooded the area. most had some stray pit bull. we had something, some mut looking animal, we called it a Bull Terrier. we named it Terry, to represent trauma, for this was the name of a mean person. indeed, such morose beauty such cagey anxiety where grownups would beat another person’s child.

to bewitch a soul or to call her name where a man believes he’s in charge. such soft, sweet glory. such pathways—passion, so unbridled.

to boast over football, to watch soccer, or to roam from yard to yard. most every home, such kneeling for comfort, or tragic, terrible tales.

            elders would become liquid, souls would gravitate, some would sip, on the porch.

            I ate a fig or raced cars such essence in unanalyzed time.

            the upper beauties hadn’t come yet. such as philosophizing by logic. or placing titles to raw existence. we knew what we studied, we knew by lost purpose, while a watchword seemed to define most of what we experienced.

such ghetto opera, such tense alliance, so many picked frustrations. to live as confined, or to mix something in vinegar, while normality seemed such a definition. our worries in bottles, as floating out to seas, while hoping upon a message in a balloon. we all seemed naïve such curious folks where any supposition was a viable supposition. such fictitious debates. such uncooked positions. where compassion seemed aggressive. a box of chalk, a concrete foundation, to jump or leap or go mad!