MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 54)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence about spilled intestines, bloody cigarettes, Jesus as an empathic SIMs player, butterflies, the dangers of revision, monsters within, toddlers cradling dolls, Plato
alive, blinking—but cradling their own snakes of viscera infantrymen rifle through pieces of their brothers for smokes too often bloody ecce homo: crucified alongside SIM pickpockets conscious in a world his kind coded minds severed by lightyears touch in mutual well wishes cast into the black sky the innuendo of adult desire in the innocent embrace of a popsicle lost hikers burn meager belongings for rescue signals opening to the subtleties of grace within the drudgeries how could his skill be appreciated by people for whom Olive Garden is gourmet? freedom to be bored jagged wounds in mountainsides from miners that once blasted for ore spun-sugar vistas too pristine, too safe, to be nourishing or humane the radiant veins of ceramic shards rejoined beetles born eating their way out of mother parent finches spurning weaker chicks so at least one might escape the nest acquiescing with exhaled courage to the scalpel, the surgeon doing the same caring for baby dolls: an unconscious request for cock those across species chewing food for their young, stealing bits as they do trailblazers scout unmapped terrain, logs marking steps for the families soon to settle the promising frontier parental concern about too much reading became about too much TV, and now there is the internet reclined in the grass of a clearing in the woods, reaching up alone there to tempt the butterfly to perch since the biological basis of racial differentiation is less solid than the biological basis of gender differentiation, it should be easier to cross the race line than it is to cross the gender line we would be alone were we not separate the space between notes drew out too far for our kind the bond formed through talking in whisper the fresh magic lost under critical glare of revision shadows of age-old bigotry shining through avatar faces street urchin pressed against the restaurant window our roads meander because, underneath, the indigenous roads do thinking of places to wipe the cum without having to get up from bed jailed alongside the “cretins” your activism opposes her fragrance still lingers in the pillow partings that would not have been had you not so tried to stay ahead of partings monsters also in the unmapped territories of the heart chasing her toddler, the mother crunchies veggie chips into the rug— her usual dutifulness strewn aside suppressing the overt expression of a fact we all see as obvious— that blacks perpetrate a disproportionate amount of violent crime— threatened to make that fact all the more powerful in our minds recognizing, as you pass others, that you are walking with a squint strained despite twilight overcast the pure form of something— courage, gaping, laughing— would look to us a shallow imitation “If kids are starving in Africa,” the boy says as he looks at his peas, “then why should I eat more?”
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.
