I was born under a sash.
Held high.
By a midwife in a mudhut.

I learned under a tree.
Where I stashed the fruit of knowledge
beneath me.

I grew under the dirt.
In a burrow underground.
And found my first and second love.

I stirred and stewed around
before I came upon a mound of more folks just like me.

I made a life.
With a woman.
Who would soon become my wife.

I stayed, through strife and struggle.
In order to make it work.

I, sad to say.
I went on strike from life.
And bottled all my hate and love up in little plastic cages.

And I raged and thrashed about in moonlight on my bedsheets.

At the reunion,
I held back in the corner.
Watching people walk passed.

It's lasted at least an hour.
I refilled my seltzer glass with a shower of ****** *****.

So, in a effort to pass the time
I perused the guest book,
and used the socially available sharpie.
Made available for signing.
In order to remember.
Instead I used it to draw a HUGE, crudely
rendered manly member over as many faces in the yearbook as I could.

Sold.
Stolen in grassy air.
Hay hell,
smell.
Musty, sharp bales selling me
nutrients.

So, I'm told.
Old rattlesnake skins and apricot spit
is lit on fire while I'm try to defile and remember who I am.

One:
Two, how have we heaved more?

Two:
What's more than failure on the seashore?

Three:
Black women led us to victory

Four:
How sour is the hour of hate before I felt filled up.

Five:
Before, before, begin and after.

Six:
It's nothing. It's just a rapture.

Soft speakers.
Lured.
And held in secret.

Blessed martyrs.
Maybe matrons of
health and hell.

So, maybe.
I should be okay.
And maybe, so should you.

What's for dinner?
What's the food?
What should I eat?
How do I stay alive?
What should I do?

How do we manage?
How to we heave out hate?

What's it like to be a person?
What's it like to try to mate
with anyone.
Or anything.
And anybody who made my heart sing?
And Why?

Why does my soul hurt?
Why am I sad?
And why do I cry?
And why does it STING?!

Call it a natural.

Even though it's not, at all.

It'll be a plagiarized ball of masks and hair.

It'll be what you show your kids,
on your old facebook.

When you thought you were young.
And they'll stare.

At the screen.
And then at you.

You wish you were a better mom.
But all you can do is stare.

And they stare back at you.
Blaming.
Shaming.
And naming you.
The owner.
Of all the bad decisions
you ever did.
And every bad decision you'll ever do.