Hell holds a place
Where I pace in a space
And through glass, I look at you

Not out of vengeful fury
But for sorrow and worry
As I remain in a dismal blue

You are not alone
And prone to the light he has shone
With your mate, both head and soul

I tear at my skull
Hysterically mull, presence null
Misery flushed by eternity’s toll

Obligatory affection
For the reflection of woman perfection
He has, but I too want you excessively  

The glass will not break
He kisses you for my sake
I famine helplessly to get more than your stare

You look back throughout his touch  
Every time it’s exceedingly much
I die watching you go

I scrutinized the miserable wretch harnessed to the table
Polished my knuckle with his murk, malice, and fable

                             Placing a centipede on his stomach as it shuffled to his eye
Languidly impending horror as he begged me to die

                                I put pressure on his abdominal with the ball of my hand
Took a breath to my diluted lungs as the boy’s jawline ran

                          Tantalizing screams of dread, poor boy fastened on steel bed  
I protruded my hand deep and to his intestines, it fed

                                          My malignant clasp ripped and mangled as it went
Like the centipede too, itched and mangled as it went

                                 And as his entrails to, like sizeable centipedes they went
In a ****** stream of fluids crawling and sprawling as they went

I bound up with glee as my poor wretch lay be, and I swung him head-toe to a pit
Where billions of legs crawl, but human ones not at all, a realm where arthropods permit

Willie Johnson stand out in the field
Nobody treat him wit respect since mother is dead
He look up at the cave
Still a boy in man’s rags
Father and elders tell em the devil lives there
Ain’t nobody supposed to go in

They’ll tell you that y’know
That the devil lives there so you don’t go in
Could be boy Willie’s a cave or ya own heart
They don’t want you to go in
They don’t want you searchin’

-What happened when he went in Pa?

I saw the inside of a cave

Every now and again, I think about where my dad might be, and what he might be doing at the very moment in which I think of him. “No dignity, no duty,” I remember my Grandfather saying. We, meaning my mom and I, think that his current dwelling is south, somewhere in Arizona. Maybe alone, maybe with a recent girlfriend who hasn’t realized how two-faced he is yet. It went something like this: when I was the little old age of three, he decided to leave me, my mom, and my sister. He said we were an expense not worth retaining. Having us around couldn’t pay back the debt he owed from his failing business proposition, the invention of a hybrid eating utensil that combined a fork, spoon, and knife together to increase the amount of table room at restaurants and finer consumption establishments for large parities of impatient patrons. His “would-be” investors claimed they already had the “spork” and that hybrid eating utensils were a thing of the past. He cursed the world, anointing the words “*******, I'll make it... I'll make it big somewhere else," and simply was gone ever since.

“Your father is a very bad man,” My mother explained to my watering eye. “I hereby excommunicate him from this family. We are going to love each other in this house.”

“What’s ex-chum-oon-eh-cating mean?” I asked diligently, wiping a tear.

“It’s what the Christian Church does to people who have been naughty. You’ll learn all about those religious doctrines in school, when you’re older. We’ll talk about it then little Bugaboo.”

And I was off to bed.

Each smokestack tranced across the side of the rust colored Hall
As an ancient Chinese paper dragon
Bobbing and
           Weaving
With feather pentatonic tea leaves
      White and green
       Silk and screen
Opaque paper culture

Smoke from my pipe
Cracked like a leather bullwhip
Broadcast from my upper lip
Southern man will be my mantle
And close quarter’s cotton, a stand still

My black skin helps reject the sun

Smoke from my cigar
Was liberated like a quiet /-pluck-\of a plant
That I choose when to release
Sothern man will soon dismantle
And still I stand in the master’s handle

I walk and watch the plane ascend,
Expecting an explosion, a means to an end.  
From earth, I’d feel the heat on the left side of my face.
A mustard coating, as the souls climb towards grace,
Is it wrong to witness a terrible thing?
To find weeping metal in a fiery ring?
Where humans once manned,
Mankind’s fleshy hand.

I continued my walk keeping track of the sky,
The plane never crashed, but still the souls climbed.