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i thought i'd share this with GD as well as Freestyle. i've been mulling over the incident for a few days now and thought i needed to hash out my anger in a creative way. i'm a poet by nature...thanks in advance for reading.
the room is a dark skull
leaving no light for thoughts,
the closest an inanimate thing
could come to being a mood--dark.
easily jading the moral fingers
of those young and old
into actions that leave no
breaths for consequence; here they stand,
on the shoulders of giant ghosts,
parents across the street,
underground, out of sight
and mind. in this room dreams
are created on the cusp of lust
and opportunity, where innocence is lost,
a baby doll with no arms or legs
and one closed eye.
--
consent is a thin line that does
not precede age. a little girl opens her mouth,
knees bent on the cold floor of malcontent,
boys viewing manhood as a curled lip
quivering around their flaccid understanding,
a loss of erection an invitation
to guilt.
--
the witness: dilated pupils scan
the gathering...she's done it before
with more or less cohorts, surely
nothing is wrong, "everyone is doing it"
how quickly false pretense can become
truth, how fierce misconception can
be perceived as being "all good".
the accomplice is not always as clever
as movies would have us think,
the world is never as simple as make believe.
--
the boyfriend and the supervision:
"it ain't no fun if my
homies can't have none"
this ain't no dog-
pound-gimme-dap-i-got-hoes-for-days
party. there is no music to two-step
to, no revolving lights. the ratio is
20:1 and one could say their is a parental
chaperone, but he has a fifth of hennessy
in his hand, and stills of pornography
dotting his mind, a crossword puzzle
unfinished. been six years since
he came and went...to him, 11 is old enough,
may even be too old...maybe he can only
count to ten.
--
sometimes, i find it hard to come to terms
with the world in which i live.
it's times like these my whole existence
can feel as an out of body experience
would--i walked pass a seven-year-old boy
speaking of "pussy" this morning,
a word i sparingly say at 24.
where responsibility should live,
is a dead dog in a 40-year-old man's
body. i damn him in the name of the
father he could never be,
in the name of the son he will never have,
in the name of the holy ghost
that could never save him from who he is,
and shall always be.
***********************************
myself is sculptor of
your body’s idiom:
the musician of your wrists;
the poet who is afraid
only to mistranslate
a rhythm in your hair...
-E.E. Cummings
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