these things are best written about later,
when you could be anyone, and I can lie
(as heartsick yet composed narrator)
about small things, like *'I really tried.'

Tough enough
         To shrug it off
But weak
          For wanting to keep it.

An idea that needs
Replacing - or updating|
You can give the *******
Lion a hug.
But the rabbit would only
Get agitated

Let wisdom taint your
pristine vision -
And look.
There is no one hundred percent
for you to take comfort in.
It all exists in unique states
And your assumptions - Automatic responses,
get you no where|
                           Near
                           A Person.

Eloquence.
Oh how many greater words I could use.
What marvels|
What intricacies|
What most unpatterned qualities!
Such confusion in the matter that it may be called,
                        Life.
           It is not life,
But no one living does dream of life without it.
For there is always one of two ways it appears.
Through the scars, the kisses, the waiting and laughter.
There is only the happy presence
Or the sorrowful lack of-
                                 Love.

Today walked down the street in my wheel chair
Rode the bus and train but forgot to be pay the taxi fare
Found my self with a blind guy who gave me directions
Got educated by an eighty year old on morning erections

Held an interesting conversation with a deaf friend
Listened to a book with no meaning and no end
Sitting down made my legs hurt but mostly my heels
Skinned an orange, threw out the bad stuff and ate the peel

Breakdanced the morning moon with a dude who didn’t have legs
Simmered the night sun with tea that was poured out of kegs
Had dinner with a vegetarian and we shared my steak dish
Also, we swam in the sky with a remarkable flying fish

Saw a janitor perform heart surgery on a machine
While the doctor told a cricket what was wrong with his spleen
Wrote lyrics with a dyslexic composer on a piano
Tanned on the beach lines of Alaska with a dark albino

Found my way thru the day with a dull flashlight
Slithered around with a snake that offered a colorful sight
Today was a day much more opposite than any other
Is this the confusion you had when you saw me with my lover?

Jonathan Pizarro
Copyright 2010 ©
May 12, 2010

Mam, from the September following Child’s 5th birthday I no longer consider you fit to raise him.
For six hours a day, five-days-a-week-term-time-only Teacher can help.
Unfortunately Teacher takes time off. She needs a break from your little monster-
so during the holiday she gives Child back. Try not to undo the good work that’s been done.
(…Won’t you?…)
If you want to bother Teacher with (daft) questions go ahead.
She’ll rearrange her face into a listening position- And respond with jargon designed to make you feel thick.
Concerns?
Child often exaggerates.
O, I see. 2 adults, 30 children and a bundle of paperwork?
She’s qualified. You’re not.
(…are you? Thought not. And you don’t live in Big House or sound T’s and H’s… So where were we?…)
Nightmares? Bruises? Cuts, scrapes, a black-eye? Low self esteem?
(…so you’re a psychologist now?…)
Child cries? Is unhappy in class?
His fault.
Or yours! Don’t worry. Teacher keeps her eyes open for signs of trouble at home.
Child skips school? Down to you.
(…There will be various consequences, of course. And implications……c-o-n…s-e-qu-e…nce-s…,….i-m-p…l-i-c…a-t…i-on-s… It’s been made clear already: You’re not fit to raise him…)
Pressured? Bored? Judged and ignored? Humiliated? Belittled? Frustrated?
It will lead to what, exactly?
O, when he leaves School! For just a moment there
I was worried.
No, no. Not a problem. Not a problem at all.
Maybe he’ll run with a bad crowd, break a few laws, end up in the gutter?
Yes. Maybe.
But it’s out of my hands.

She lets me try it on.
I want it. But I don’t get presents like she does.
It’s beautiful. Bright with a white, fluffy trim. Zip and
poppers all the way up.
She widens her eyes. Twists her hands into claws
and she says “Little Red, come here and climb into bed…”
I laugh. Her wolf sounds just like Grandma.
Ma swings her arm back. I stop.
She turns to see what’s changed. It isn’t funny anymore.
I hear the thwack as Ma’s hand connects with her nose. It
was an accident.
Should’ve been the side of her head.
Now there’s blood.
She buries her face, wraps her arms round my waist.
A darker red blooms on the nylon.
She calms down but she’s shaking. We untangle and I help
her on with the coat.
I don’t want it.
We wait for a while in silence; shredding lollypop sticks,
peeling the top off an old lemonade-can.
She starts to cut neat, tiny crosses into her fingertips.
Not deep.
But I’ve seen enough. I feed the lollypop sticks and
lemonade-can to the cracks between the planks of the pier.
The hood covers her eyes completely. I think she’s stopped
crying.
“You look just like Little Red” I tell her.
She says “Maybe I am.”