I ask the people of the world
Why must we keep boxes of
each race, barricades in each
Borders, separate lives of each
Cultures, as our truth varries in
    each mirrored choices, then we
Carry the havy consequences,
The burden of these shackled
Past - we ponder to wonder
These nightmarish Regrets
So in the end, the answer is
Subjective, rules and walls
Are there for a reasonable
Purpose
It maybe
good or bad
Light or dark
Day or night
An infinite battle
Running in circles
         to maintain
chaos and order
in one box.

people driving fancy cars
look like beetles to the stars

the missiles and the bombs
are like symphonies gone wrong

and if there is a god
they'll know why it's so hard to be human

I've had my time in bars.            Rather,
Parked out back in cars.  Chasing
Dragons through the stars. Destination
Far from Mars.      Cross eyed
Painless fearless heart.                       Cut

                 frame

Welcome, here we are.    Presently
Manifesting Arden far.              Dancing
Feasting ******* hard.  Creating
Broken blemished hearts.     Tarnished
Famished far flung stars.


Tarnished famished far flung stars.

-


oh, considerate
counselors~

i fear the scars of your instruction
will never erode, even after i
melt down your mental
tarbabies
with a solution
that i hope will make
them chemically dissolve away,

leaving nothing but your staples.

what was it really ?
hyperactivity, autism,
anomalies of perception,
social detachment,
maybe—

a Gift ?

well, i guess it would not have
made a difference, everybody
knew of this but
                                  me-

patching up my gray matter mistakes
with remedies permanently cemented
between impressionable foldings

i feel this cure like masonry damming
where free-flowing thoughts that ride
upon streams into oceans were supposed
to have discharged naturally,

stopping me from causing my
summers to mix with everybody
else's winters (or vise versa).

you see, my natural configuration
would have sated for me what
would —in turn— infuriate others,

thus the picket around me was built
sufficiently lofty so i would never
grow tall enough to oversee it.

these days i often mistaken this perimeter
for bricks that line the inside of a well,
complete with a leaky bucket
swinging overhead,
beyond my
reach—

of all things an adult child could ever
want for Christmas, the removal of
what now prohibits true potential

these things they instilled into me
so i could not violate the principals
of conventional wisdom in their day—

but this is
My Day
now !

and dead counselors need
not protect their world
from Me anymore !

and this Gift ?

it continues drifting
conspicuously aloft
in my gray ocean—

a Divine Gratuity that remains
—to this day— unsuitable
for redemption...


s jones
© 2020


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