Before my uncle
Johnny "Cash"
González died,
I had already ******
my Russian girlfriend
countless times
and in several positions.
He told me about
wearing condoms,
gentle *******,
which my girl liked,
and bongs for ****.
He was against ******,
hitting women,
and spit as ****.
Because of his insistence,
I could play the guitar,
read chords,
and sing blues.
He also taught me
how to roll dice
and bluff in poker;
it was all about
tricking eyes
and ****** up hands.
Right before
he closed his eyes,
he whispered and laughed
that I was ready to make
the world cry.
I got it when he said
******* and kisses
were the kept secrets;
beer not water
was fuckingly good
for filtering smoke;
die or dice,
about surviving
in the streets of sharks;
Folsom ... Blues,
a prison song;
or man's worth,
his **** and pride.
But world crying
sounded Greek to me.
Not into poems,
flowery words,
or emotional ****,
I had no clue
until I stabbed
my girlfriend's brother
who wanted to **** out
his sister for dope.
He hurt Oksana and me
and tested my manhood.
I was prepared to go
to jail for that disrespect.
So I willingly did
to stay there for a while,
and the world cried.
My childhood buddies,
friends at work,
and even neighbors
showed up to console
my mom and dad.
I was a good kid
with a good personality
and a good job
and a good future.
My baby sister
Elena Marie
suffered from asthma,
and I made her sob;
that ******* hurt,
and her hug was tight.
The trial began,
and my lawyer argued
self-defense;
that ****** was no saint.
Eventually I received
a unanimous acquittal,
but was never the same.
I used what I learned
from my dead uncle,
preyed on anyone,
and did not really care
if the world wailed.
Last spring
it was writing poetry
in New Folsom.
Written
14 March 2016
Copyright
© Cassandra Cepe. All rights reserved.
