MADE FOR YOU AND ME 1: hive Being (Stanzas 2016—part 6)
Let's workshop this stanza sequence, which includes asphyxiated sharks, cougars eating ice-pops, autistics playing musical chairs, rodeo groupies, "cheese" in the folds of the parking-brake leather
what was done to serve your addiction? he wishes he was the man he daily mocks blood ice-pops for cougars in summer zoos no home to bring the baby to once it comes out church conceived as a sin-management program fake-natty poets in the age of artificial intelligence happy to be the person that you wanted never to be telling the hesitant hiring manager that you are self-taught struggling to get dying loved ones to eat despite their refusals punching the swaddled infant in the dome: “Little nigga ain’t mine!” food gunk from workday lunch kept face-yuck creamy— quite similar to that cervical cheese of vulvic crevices— in the leatherette folds around her parking-brake handle slow formation of the belief that abuse does not count as abuse when abusing those without the backbone to stop it for pussy on-call and a spot from which to deal, street thugs move in with ladies of walker age whose children are too busy to visit it turns out there is not really any blame to go around: Africans who netted other Africans to sell to whites were bewitched, historians now realize, by white spells until the shareholders, the company was all about being a platform for free speech spiders will watch you a game of catch with a beer bottle between three homeless men on the grass and in the sun violent musical chairs for the blue M&M in the autistic classroom do emojis spell some need effaced by the non-pictorial language that bloomed in ancient Greece? fear of oblivion morphing with age to fear of what will be left behind the lamp still glows its warm yellow even as the window turns glaucous in the first glimmerings of daylight you demand reparations and special dispensations from a US system you say is “hopelessly corrupted by white supremacy”—so corrupted it would seem any such helping hand would actually be toxic to blacks pianist tendonitis serial killer t-shirts jumpy preschoolers resurrecting dead clichés a bum with a voice for radio lunch alone in a bathroom stall the dreams of those blind since birth evicted to the guest bedroom for snoring free associations converging around the globe rodeo groupies aiming to rope the trophy cowboy watered-down margaritas, gaudy for cruise-line seniors junk haulers taking their picks of the dead man’s belongings finned sharks tossed overboard, pulsing gills mocked by dull current the loved ones with whom you share your works feel worthless thereby, but perhaps that is the whole point? the world that becomes so small in the myopia of hunger opens up again after some bread when a funeral can be almost wonderful: families reuniting, crying and sharing memories
*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: redlinegoods.com/Corolla14install.php