i wake
    it is 8
    i am seven
the sun floods in through the window
(late!)     2 pop-tarts and some juice and out the door in 9 minutes flat.-
r   u   n   n   i   n   g
recon the neighborhood. "Hey, Scott".  We team up. A few of the"little" kids are out as well.
Check at Ricky's. Some sort of punishment, but a little whining and he is free as well.
More kids come out.
          DIRT CLOD WARS!

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                  seek cover

They go behind a dumpster.  us, in a ditch.
we lob (never throw! ) the chunks of red clay which hit the asphalt with a puff
of puce vapor.
Some kid hits my little brother with a thrown clod,
               with a rock in it.
   He cries.
Honor demands a fight.
taunting , shoving,
I hit the kid in the nose and it bleeds. Crying he runs home.
                                                           ­                                   (and I feel a glory Alexander would envy.)
"FELIX, COME HOME FOR LUNCH"
                                                    (5 minutes to devour a bologna sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk)
then ****** into round two. this time hide-and-seek and she . .
                                                                ­                      (the new girl ; corn-silk hair and eyes that . . ??
so i'm "it"
but even the "little" kids are getting Home
      ( i am way out left      
                                                      ­                                      because i know . . .)

- suddenly - 
 she makes a deerlike dash for home, but i am ready,
and like a javelin
appear between her and Home.
"you're out"
as  my hand grasps her shoulder.

                        e v e r y  m o l e c u l e  o f   m y  f l e s h  
                                                             ­                                    !ignites!
                                                                ­                                                                a­nd  i  feel as a god)

The game is over.  Scott, Ricky and I spend an hour tricking the"little" kids into sitting in piles of dog ****.
Suppertime and we are called home.

years have come and gone,
still i remember those summers.
with Scott and Ricky.
and  the  heady . . .
                 . . .dizzying
                breathless . . .
                 . . . bliss
of
      p
          l
              a
                   y. . .!

Sometimes . . . from time to time
I also remember the girl -
                                                                ­                     *(and I still feel a tingle in my right hand.)

. . . if you have ever been born,
there was a madness made within you

.forever.

not a madness of cruelty or despair
(for it gobbles these up)
but a madness rich with silver linings
and ships
surely              
          coming          
                            in.
and when (youandi) draw our    
last.dying.breath.
It will be the final fragment to leave us.
it is
it is insanity
it is irrational bug-befuddled lunacy
It is a Madness.

It is called hope.

unbearable pain has lift the veil from my eyes.
Oh, God of gods I see thee now.
You care not for worship nor tribute
nor songs of praise.
Yet, while the faithful in huddled rags lie,
Butchers rest well in slips of fine linen.
So let us know thee by thy one covenant kept;
"I am the lord thy God and thou shalt die".

For Death, not deliverance is the truth of your grace
and not man's adoration, but his rotting flesh
that satiates you.
Omnipotent, celestial devourer
unbearable pain has lift the veil from my eyes.
and I see your true form -

God thou art a maggot.

She
               (my mother
is not of softness but is of steel reinforced concrete.
she will give what she feels is deserved.
nevermore {beg if you like}
neverless
regardless of the cost to herself.
                                                        ­  . . but deep, deep
as fair as rock is she.
her greetings are tolerations. her goodbyes, predictions
- of my forseen failures.
                                                       ­    . . still     i seem to remember . .
a
* glimmer *
of a laugh, a  
~whisper~  
of a touch                  so
                                      ­         very    
                                                        ­       long
                                                     ­                            ago . .  /  

perhaps one day as she lies resting I will take my mothers hand
and kiss her upon her marble forehead
and speak "I love you mom"
and a single tear will drop from my face
onto her face
. . . and the coldness within her will bre-
                                                            ­      -ak

and my mother will break.