So, I am impolite
I am polite.
As father was with, an open clenched kitten’s paw.
Honed to strength of aged claw.
OUR only diagnosis a home where the fishy scales dry…warm and raw
Both my father and I…a seamstress, a tailor with a dull needle.
Tethered together…venomous spelunkers in a dry well.
Scratched in tongues so wide and red.
OUR bloodline canvasses a coyote grey and turquoise blue. aligned to the crimson lies we tell….
From outside a generation’s thought tanned knuckles, rosebud cheek, thorny wishes down a wishing well.
From outside a generation’s thought, I lay in a casket made of crib ribbons and no pillow for my head.
And, my mother’s resourcefulness vows to lay with the dead.
Ah, I understand now, alone, a product of ancient Rome
(a black collar, middle class, value family from my generation.)
WE utter tumors of blood.
For with OUR blood…plug the dykes and the wall still remains
It was there I had seen him first. An overly clean orderly with distended belly. Apparently, he had many needs to feed his vice.
Oh, Mother Melancholia had been a woman-child of gelled mold. Obliging, as a casserole. She had been known for trading a weekend passes just to come in from the cold.
Catacomb Lovers you fill my psyche with only lies.
Broad is a shipwrecked boat in the woods, swinging from a household tree.
Sweaty are the breasts upon cursed, crafty cave.
I protest to this embankment,
The residents, the freaks, are prepared to overthrow!
No matter how you keep your pansies, well groomed. No matter the vials for your smiles. A Pagan Reformer tide…will be coming soon. Crimson waters will punish your passageway. ..a chastity belt notched around the tombs.
Angry tears rain upon abandon houses.
It is here comfort feels at home…most.
Ghastly stairwells replace stubbed toes.
Eerie bulkheads surrounded with infected weeds replaced by the belt and the knee.
Heroic crosses dressed in blood replaced by screams louder than nothingness.
What is not replaced…
The uneven sunrises and the awkward sunsets.
Cannot you see,
‘they are fractured just like me.’
Fragments and figments of is left…
these are the buildings…
these are the visions…
that understand me best.
“If winter calls should I answer?” mother had asked.
Her words such as peeled back bark.
Earthy and sublime, a slow pouring wine.
The volume of her sentences were never said…in moderation.
It is four in the morning and I am awoken to hanging on.
What ground had just been broken?
How many more sleepless black and white moments, sullen and justified, would this go on?
Ashen, Irish, ashes all that was left in the morning.
When memories woke up.