MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 31)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about healing crystals, autistic obliviousness, rapey dads and coaches, cowboys and vatos, the humor even in tragedy, gang bangs, crime scenes, Amway
bleached tang splotches in panties from yogurt acid eschewing the guilt of waste meant jaded chewing incentives for more arrests, as if justice were vacuum sales food presentation and bedside manner “Shave that goddam lip fuzz, boy—looks like a pussy and Daddy wanna fuck it” as if it were a dog's rib cage (only lacking thumps of hollow), he patted the boulder that seemed to notice him each morning lunchtime cocktails during the court recess for your hopeless trial hands tremulous from withdrawal each morning, the steward son tips the bottle to his father’s lips only able to say goodbye with our eyes, afraid this might be the last time unaware—spectrum-style—that her lurid gaze compels her victims to drop their eyes, soon enough you yell across the food court, “Do you know me?” rejecting black words for fear that they cannot but mirror fantasies projected by whites a burden supportable for one in good health healing crystals in a bookstore is not a good sign—unless you yourself are a bad sign the asteroid might strike batteries dead in all solar-path lighting the urge to consume— eat, fuck, kill even— at the threshold of death using out of guilt what makes you guilty for neglecting its use even if only surfaces matter, that is no excuse to reach with hands alone (for a depth is but a deeper surface) traumatized by parents who never made it reasonable, like all the other parents, to panic about being caught masturbating or smoking the event seen as tragic at the time became comedic as our personal narrative evolved— but we had a hazy sense of the comedy all along if the mere presence of humanity in a painting saves it from being porn, might the right music— shot angles, lens filters—so save the gang bang? cowboys make horses do tricks; vatos make cars jump when our delight in something grows past a point, is there much wonder why delight withers in those around us? lucky for coach, who at last came clean about the fondling, never do people confess faults to hide ones even greater clear in amoebas moving toward food or tree roots moving toward water (and perhaps even a satellite moving toward the larger body)—wherever there is moving toward, there seems to reside some semblance of valuing real teeth color in eighties films rotting before death “telepathy made easy” the self-degradation of thinking that thinking about philosophy is just what nerdy white people do imagine the violence in sex that would be if male humans had the same libido as now but a horse body and hooves instead of hands the faces of those gathered around the contorted splatter of a victim— examine them for hints of laughter existential crises intense enough for state funding getting on your feet and clapping when Gloria Estefan’s “Get on your Feet” plays at the Amway seminar you plan to sleep all day for rejuvenation, so why not plan to cry? chunks of upchuck ball bearings across the floor in the bearing of her run
This is a portion of an ongoing mosaic poem called Made for You and Me. This portion is from the first installment: hive Being (Stanzas 2016-2020). More specifically, it is from the 2016 portion of that five-part work.
Photo: reddit.com/r/malegrooming/comments/w7styd/how_should_i_get_rid_of_the_growing_mustache_hair/